


Strangeness & Charm

by aybeexinfinity



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Minas Tirith, Osgiliath, Shapeshifter, Skinwalker, druadan forest, i don't trust people who think boromir wasn't amazing, reference to beorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29314362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aybeexinfinity/pseuds/aybeexinfinity
Summary: There have always been creatures of Middle Earth that Man has known little of. The ones that only seem to live in legend, forever shrouded by mist and wonder. However, things cannot forever remain a secret; and eventually truths will be discovered. Alliances will be made. The curtain will be lifted and two worlds will collide in a whirlwind of strangeness and charm.Set shortly before the events of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 1





	1. The Wolf in the Woods

The scent reached her before the sound did. Blood. It mingled with the smell of pine and oak and maple and conifers, blended with hare and deer and squirrel and sparrow; seeped through the dormant flowers. The faster she went, the stronger the smell became: the familiar metal-and-sweetness that always accompanied manflesh. Wind pushed back her obsidian black fur, bits of dirt kicking up as her paws crashed against the forest floor. The trees began to thin as she drew closer to the river’s edge, the place where a home had once stood. It left behind nothing but a bare place in the dirt that someone had likely thought to be a good place to rest for the night.

 _He is a fool_ , she thought, swerving in between the ancient tree trunks. _The ones who come this way always are_. The Drúadan forest was, for the most part, spared any visitors. Occasionally a few weary travelers would find themselves on the edge of the wood and journey inward a short distance for fresh water, but rarely did any ever venture this far in. Rarely any _people_ , at least. In the recent years there had been a notable increase in the sighting of orcs and other unsavoury creatures. She did her best to keep them out, but it was a very large forest and she was just one person.

Lying between Edoras and Minas Tirith, it would have been safe to assume some form of patrol would take place along the White Mountains. This was not the case. Part of her liked it that way; she wanted the woods to herself after all. Though it would spare her the trouble of running the woods each day to make sure her homeland was safe. To make sure she would not wake in the middle of the night to a raid from a host of orcs. Though she was much larger than the average wolf, there was only so much that could be done when outnumbered.

And yet there she was, rushing to the aid of whatever foolish traveler decided to get himself lost and injured. It wasn’t her responsibility, and yet a part of her always felt the need to help. Perhaps it had been the massacre, perhaps it was just stupidity. Whatever the reason, it trumped her suspicion of outsiders and her weariness of revealing herself. After all, when an animal—be it man or beast—is injured and scared, it is more likely than not to lash out. _Yet still I run towards the smell, like a mother chasing after a crying child._ _These Southron men will be the death of me, one day._

At the top of a small hill she paused, hot breath misting in the cold air before her. There was another scent there, a much more dangerous one. It was denser than the smell of human and therefore didn’t waft up the mountainside, but now it stood as pungent as ever. _Wargs. A pack of them_. That was the cause of the blood, then. Below her was the small river, and not far beyond it she could hear the sound of blades and arrows and the bellowing war cries men so loved to unleash. _They’ll call all the wargs in Middle Earth with that racket._

With a deep breath she hurdled down the hill, leaping over rocks and dodging the low-hanging branches that reached out towards her. She found the camp soon enough. It was a small group of men—five or six—all armoured and armed fiercely. Two wargs lay dead or dying on the ground, but there were far more still circling, attacking. She drew to the edge of the clearing, studying the environment quickly to choose her course of action. Soon enough, though, it was chosen for her: a warg charged the man nearest to her and sank its teeth into his forearm. The vambraces of Gondorian build were strong, but so were the jaws of a hungry warg.

Without hesitation she barreled towards the warg, grabbing hold of his back leg and ripping him away from the man with one jerk of her jaw. The warg cried out but turned instantly for vengeance, to which she allowed an attempt. It dove at her in the same erratic way that its orc masters moved and she easily moved aside, knocking it to the ground and ripping out its throat. She could hear the men continuing to fight, although one called out a name. _Faramir_.

The men were good fighters; that much they made clear. They took down wargs efficiently enough, but they were not _hunters_. They could not think as the beasts did, only as men did. So when they slayed the last one they could see and thought to take a breath, it fell to her to show them they were wrong. Most of them had caught sight of her and were evaluating what to do with a wolf half the height of them; wholly blind to the threat that still loomed. She turned her back to them, standing as a barrier between the two remaining wargs that edged into the clearing.

She arched her back and bared her teeth, releasing a fearsome growl that made the smaller of the two reconsider. The larger one though—the alpha of the group—looked right past her to the men he wished to feast on. She stepped forward, howling at them both in hopes to make them flee; but she knew they would not abandon their cause, not even with so many of their kin slain before them. The larger would be her target, and if she was lucky the smaller would flee when its leader was dead.

It studied her for a moment before leaping forward. She met it mid-air and they collided to the ground, a whirlwind of teeth and claws and fur. She felt the pain in several spots and its teeth sunk into her, but it was just as stupid as the rest of its kind. All that evil, all that madness, all that power—and no wits with which to rule them. With a distracting bite to its flank, she seized the moment that it turned to retaliate to claw at its eyes. The thing whelped and she pinned it down, sinking her teeth deep into its neck. Hot black blood rushed to meet her, soaking her nose and mouth. She kept a hold of the thing until it stopped twitching, at which point she looked up to the smaller warg. It cried quietly in submission, meaning to back away, when an arrow pierced its head.

After heaving a few breaths in, she turned her attention to the wounded man, the one they called Faramir. She padded towards him but an arrow went flying past before she could get too close. The same one who yelled before called for the man to stop.

“Did you not see what it did?” He was taller than all the others, with a fair and noble face, light-haired and grey-eyed. His garments were rich, his cloak lined with fur and a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set. The other men all looked to him; a leader. “If it wished to kill us it would have. There are stories of a wolf in the woods that aids lost wanderers. Perhaps we have found ourselves a legend.”

“Or perhaps we have found a hungry wolf who means to make off with Faramir as dinner.” One of the others offered.

She huffed at him before getting onto her hind legs and stretching backwards. As she did, the black fur gave way to long black hair and light skin, the snout receding to lips and a small nose, the golden eyes shrinking to grey. The woman that stood before them was clad in furs and treated leather pants with thick boots to warm her feet. The men looked on with wide eyes and she left them to their puzzlement, moving at last to the wounded man’s side and kneeling.

“Your arm is badly wounded.” She said simply, gingerly inspecting it as he stared at her. From her side she took a small knife, cutting a band of cloth from her undershirt and wrapping it tightly around his injuries. After, she got to her feet and helped him up. “You would do well to return to your city with haste. Left too long, it will fester and likely need removing lest you should want to greet death.”

Without another word she turned to leave, marching into the wood. The wargs would need to be burned, but it would need to wait until first light. After dawn, the dangerous creatures of the night slinked back into their caves and crevices. Only then would it be safe.

“Wait!” The leader called out, moving quickly towards her. She hesitated, taking the defensive position due to his speed, but he slowed and stopped a fair distance from her. “We are half a day’s journey from Minas Tirith, and we have yet to find a path through these woods.”

“Follow the river.” She took a step back from him, as if the small change in distance would protect her from the burning desire to help. _Kindness can kill, I have learned my lesson_. Again she turned to leave. “It will lead you to the edge of the forest.”

“ _Please!_ ” He begged, rooting her to the spot. “Will you not help him?”

She studied the desperation on his face. The men stood idly behind him and the whole forest seemed to wait for her word. _Was it just to blame all the men for the deeds of one?_ She could not even recall if he was of Gondorian descent. He wore no sigil upon his clothes, nor did he boast any armor. She had long lost the ability to tell Rohirrim from Gondorian from Arnorians from the ones who dwelled in Umbar. _I remember the fear well enough, though. I remember being certain he would take me before killing me. Had I not slipped into a wolfskin…_

“Please.” He said once more, sheathing his sword. “You have my word, no harm will come to you.”

She pondered his words but focused more on the man himself. He looked honest enough, yet so did the other man. Later she recalled the anxious feeling in her stomach as she’d led the man back to her home, but the feeling was not there with this man. He seemed to genuinely care for his injured comrade and clearly had a handle on the actions of the others. She supposed if worst came to worse, she could take the skin of a mouse and flee from them all. _Find another forest to call my own. Perhaps even return to the borders of Greenwood where Beorn might still reside._

“Move quickly and quietly.” She instructed them and waited only for the leader to nod to his other men before marching across the river.

It was small enough, but once it left the forest it merged with the Celos River and eventually the Anduin, which was no small feat to cross. The waters of the Anduin emptied into the Bay of Belfalas, surrounding the Isle of Tolfalas. She had considered making her home there for a while but decided the harvest would be too unpredictable and help too far away if ever necessary.

The men seemed to have wholly forgotten the part of being quiet. They stomped through the woods breathing heavily and snapping every twig they could. _Small wonder. They are soldiers, these ones. They only know how to ride steeds and march into battles, which are never quiet affairs._ She considered doubling back to cover their scent, but a warg pack as big as they encountered was not like to have a rival group close by.

Something did make her stop, though, and as soon as she did the leader went on high alert. He asked her what it was, scanning the landscape for some hint of danger. She looked past him to the last one of the group. He shifted nervously as she slowly walked towards him. From the tree behind him she pulled off a small piece of cloth that had been cut from his tunic. _A marker._ She held it up to her nose to get the scent before recalling she was in human form.

“How many others did you leave along the trail?” She asked in a low voice. He looked between her and his group, so she drew closer to him.

“Just the one.” He answered in the calmest voice he could muster. She raised her eyebrows at him and repeated the question. After a moment of silence and a nod from the leader he succumbed. “Four.”

“Wait here.” She commanded, shifting to the wolf and disappearing into the night in search of the others. They were easy enough to find, and when they had all been collected she threw them into the river. Only then did she return to the now anxious bunch of men. “If I wished for you to find my home again, I would have given you a map.”

After that she pushed them even harder, verging on making them run to keep up with her. It was only the injured one’s pained breath that found her sympathy once more. They made it to the top of the hill and looked down onto the clearing, her small home standing amidst a field of wildflowers and crabgrass. Smoke rose from the chimney into the path of the moon, the white globe shedding minimal light on the small garden and stable beside her home.

When they approached the cabin the few animals in the stable stirred, backing away from the sight of the strangers. She said a phrase to them in a language the men did not understand, and the animals calmed. Inside they found a warm hearth and a quaint abode. There was only one door besides the entrance and everything save a bed seemed to be in the main chamber. The skin-walker instructed the injured one to sit at the table and remove his armor.

By the time he was ready so was she. A collection of unmarked glass and clay jars littered the table, along with a small needle and black thread. She sat beside the man and immediately washed away the blood. When the area was clear, the cloth went into one of the jars and she dabbed at all the fang marks with something that smelled pleasant but appeared to burn.

“There is ale in a barrel beneath the window. I’ve only two mugs but there are bowls on the shelf. If you require food there are stores in the cellar.”

“Our thanks, my lady.” One of them said as they dispersed. The leader sat across from the woman and watched somewhat anxiously as she worked. Different herbs and liquids, most of which the leader couldn’t even dream of identifying, were crushed into a fine paste and lathered into the smaller of the wounds. She stitched the larger ones before covering them in a paste as well. When it was finished she wrapped the arm in clean bandages and instructed him not to remove them until he reached a healer.

“It seems I owe you an arm.” He joked. _He has an innocent smile_ , she thought. _There is no evil in this one. Not even if he tried._

“Have your lord father cast her one in gold!” One of the men suggested, tilting the bowl back and spilling its contents into his throat. _They will lose their wits even quicker with the potency of that ale._

“I have no use for gold.” She remarked before setting to return the jars to their proper place. When she finished the leader cleared his throat.

“I am Boromir, son of Denethor. This is my brother, Faramir, and my men: Beregond son of Baranor, Barahir son of Bregor, and Eregion son of Eriador.”

 _Eregion, the suspicious one_. She nodded to the leader and pulled a series of furs and blankets from her stores, laying them out on the floor and welcoming the men to their choice. Without another word she left the cabin, becoming the wolf and scouring the edges of the clearing for any scent of wargs.

She had difficulty remembering any history of Middle Earth. It was near impossible for her to make sense of all the kings and lords and sons of sons. She had spent too little time amongst people, least of all men. Whether or not Denethor was a king or a lord she could not say. All she was certain of was that the lordling sons of his seemed to be decent men. Their followers, though…

On a rock at the outskirt of the meadow she sat, ears and nose and eyes searching for any imminent danger the scent of man flesh may have brought. For the moment, the forest was just as quiet and drowsy as it should have been. Save for the voices booming from her cabin. Even from the rock, she could hear them discussing her.

“…A sorceress. I swear it, lads, I can smell a witch a thousand leagues away.” Eregion said in an attempt at a quiet voice. “She may have poisoned you, Lord Faramir. She may have poisoned all of us. Might be she needs humans for a sacrifice of some sort!”

“Enough with your old wives tales, Eregion. She is no sorceress.” Beregond said dismissively. “If she was, she would have turned you into a sow for all the wits you have about you tonight. _Sorceress_. Do you not heed the stories of the watchmen?”

“The watchmen from Eilenach, the third beacon hill?” Faramir asked inquisitively.

“Aye. There’s been more than one man who speaks of the Maiden of the Forest. Give them enough ale and they’ll tell you. A maiden, fair-faced and of few words. It is said she can sense a man’s deeds: aiding those who are good and slaying those who are evil. Luthamir himself swore he would not rest until he looked upon her face once more.”

“Luthamir is half-mad, Beregond.” Barahir laughed as one of the others belched. “He told me a fortnight ago that a Faerie came into his bedchambers and stole his boots. Turns out he’d only left them beneath his bed.”

“’Tis not only Luthamir, my friend. I have heard the same tale, more or less, from at least seven others, not only from Gondor.”

“It seems the Wolf and the Maiden are one.” Faramir said with wonder. She slipped off the wolf skin and walked over to the stables in her true form. “At least one good thing has come from this quest.”

“You should all get some rest. We have a journey ahead of us still, and our host needn’t be bothered by us longer than needed.” Boromir said calmly. The chattering stopped after that and the men settled down, all save the leader. She listened as he opened the door and stepped into the night with a heavy sigh.

She sat on a small wooden stool with a small goat nuzzled in her lap. Her hands glided down its head and back repeatedly until it fell into a slumber. As it dozed, the man drew close with caution.

“Am I intruding?” He asked in a gentle voice. She shook her head and pointed inside the stables where another stool was. The large circular shield he carried leaned against the stable wall as he sat across from her, taking in the sight of the place. “You made all of this yourself?”

“I had help. What are you seeking in these lands?”

“My father sent us out to find the Wild Men of the Mountains and ask if they will fight for us in return for food and weapons. The orcs of Mordor grow bolder by the day. There was a road here once, created by the Stonehouse-Folk…”

“That road has been forgotten by all save the Wild Men. You would wander around for months before finding it—these woods are prone to change.” The little goat stirred in her lap and she soothed it with soft words before looking up at the man. “Your plight is fruitless, though. The Wild Men have no need of your weapons nor your food. They grow bitterer every day and have come to loathe the race of Men. It is like that they will chase you from their lands with rusty axes and blazing branches.”

“You are certain of this?” Boromir asked apprehensively, brow furrowing at the notion of a failed quest. “There will be no swaying them?”

“If you wish it I will take you to the forgotten road and you may ask them yourself. You came here on horseback yet I found your group alone. Were they slain by the wargs?”

“I…” The man was jarred by her sporadic speech. “They were spooked by them when we were attacked and ran off into the woods.”

“At first light I will have your horses waiting. Then you must leave.” She spoke bluntly, but the man took no offence. The woman had grown far too accustomed to the way that animals spoke and the occasional harsh ramblings of a wild man. It had been many moons since she conversed with civilized men. “Your men call you lord, is your father a king?”

“King?” He was taken aback by the proposal, wholly shocked at her lack of knowledge concerning the White City. “No, my father is the steward. There have been no kings in Gondor for a very long time.”

The woman watched him carefully, trying to understand the sadness in his voice. It was so strange to her, seeing all these men so attached to their cities and realms and histories. She had never known any of it so it all just seemed pointless. But it clearly meant a great deal to this man. He sat with the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet there was kindness in him. A good and honourable nature; strength and bravery. She admired these qualities, for they reminded her of ghosts she’d once known.

“May I ask your name, my lady?” The man shifted in the seat and the noise woke the sleeping animal in her lap. It jumped off and went into the stable, settling in with its kin. The woman studied him for a moment, hesitantly complying.

“Faenorë.” It felt almost foreign, saying her name. She had not uttered it in the common tongue for years. And yet it came easily, telling it to this steward’s son. All the other Gondorians and Wild Men and the travellers in between, they were always trying to decipher her or coax her to follow them to their homeland. Always a mystery. Yet this one did not dig, merely admired. She found herself spilling out stories that had never left her lips before, and did not bother to stop.

“Do you know of the skin-walkers? A race of men and women gifted with the ability to merge with the natural world in impossible ways. They could take the form of any beast they wished—sometimes even other people—as easily as pulling on a cloak. They made their homes amongst the Greenwood and the Misty Mountains, a community closer than ever any before…”

“What happened to them?” Boromir asked, leaning forward and hanging on her every word. His speech spurred her from her ramblings and she drew back into herself, pulling at the fur on her jacket.

“Orcs happened. They massacred almost all of us. My parents were both slain before my eyes. I was ten at the time, so one of the adults took me in. Beorn his name was.” She stood abruptly after that, waking some of the animals as she put the stool back in the stables. “You need to rest, Boromir son of Denethor. You’ve a long journey ahead of you.”

Faenorë became a wolf once more and disappeared into the trees. While the men of Gondor slept she searched for the lost horses, one by one herding them back to the cabin. The cool night air gave way to the fresh breath of dawn as the sun began to wake the woods. By the time she fastened a saddle onto her own horses the men had woken and eaten modest meals. They filtered outside and awaited her word.

“One of you rode a brown stallion with a black mane and white markings upon its face.” She watched the men all look to their leader. “It was dead when I found it. You may take Asta, but I will return for her one day. If she refuses to go into a place there is likely danger afoot. Trust her senses over yours, Lord Boromir.”

He nodded and thanked her as they all mounted. She still mistrusted the one called Eregion, and so took care to lead them through the thickest parts of the wood where they could not hope to find the path nor her home again. They came onto the forgotten path just as the sun peaked over the trees.

“Here is where I leave you.” She turned away after that and meant to ride off but Boromir called her back. He told the others to go, that he would follow behind soon after. Faramir thanked Faenorë earnestly before joining the others, arm hanging in a sling. Boromir led Asta over to her and gave a small smile.

“I do not doubt without you Faramir would have lost an arm, if we had survived the wargs. Gondor owes you a debt and it shall not be forgotten. You have my most honest thanks, my lady.”

He carefully reached out and took her bare hand in his gloved one, bringing his lips to the back of it before releasing her. She sat frozen on the horse as he smiled, bowed, and turned away from her. A feeling crept into her chest that she vaguely remembered from a distant dream, and she let it fester until the steward’s son was out of sight. Then she turned the horse swiftly and buried it deep within her core, never to consider it again.


	2. The Oath-Keeper

In a nook in the mountainside, out of the rain but not spared the cold wind, the wolf watched. The clouds overhead were black and blocked out what little sunlight was left. Faenorë was on her way back to her cabin when she had caught the worrying scent. There was no room for optimism within her just two weeks after a warg attack in the woods. The scent left little room for wishful thinking and the sight erased it completely.

There were at least thirty of them. Weather-beaten orcs big and small scaling up the mountainside and entering through the northern-most caves. They carried tools and packs and even a few dead animals: clear markers that they were not simply stopping for a breather. Their grunts and heavy breathing made the wolf furious. _How dare they presume to call these mountains theirs? How long do I have before they begin to cut down these ancient trees to feed their horrid fires? The animals will leave this place quickly and soon there will be no forest left to protect._

The stench of the orcs wafted through the slating rain, stinging the wolf’s nose even as she turned away. Few spots remained dry on the forest floor, her paws caking with mud every step she took. All that Faenorë could hope for was the wild men would heed her call. Danger was, after all, closer to them. Though if they refused…

Water pelted her as she ran through the woods, soaking through the fur and chilling her to the bone. The winds bit as the storm raged with thunder hammering the skies like a drum. All of the wild men lived on the other side of the forest from where Faenorë made her home, farther from Minas Tirith.

She rarely interacted with the group of them. There were a few times when she first made her way into the Drúadan, when a need of some tools and starter materials pushed her to it. Aside from that, it was only ever under dire circumstances. She did not like to owe a debt, and insisted on trading as opposed to asking for charity. _Grimhelm said I was stubborn to a fault_. _And yet not stubborn enough to save him_ …

For nearly an hour she ran at full speed, pushing herself to get to the wild-lands sooner than later. They sat at the edge of the forest but nearly half-way up the mountain. Tents of cow-hide and log cabins were favoured over great stone villas in these places, with a large communal fire centred in the community. The wild men were a people born in hatred and harshness. They were erratic like orcs and were of shorter tempers than wizards. Above all things, though, the wild men were hunters. Survivors. They spared no thought of killing anything that dare enter marked territory. In fact, the wild men of the White Mountains were becoming more beast than man with every new generation.

_I can hardly blame them. The world is simpler through an animal’s eyes._

As she neared the wild-lands Faenorë left her wolfskin behind for the one that was familiar to them. They were prone to attack any trespassers, especially during a storm when it was harder to hear them coming. Smoke was rising from all of the home-fires to make up for the communal blaze that was no doubt drowned by the rain. Everyone would be inside save the look-outs; so she marched to the nearest one.

He jumped at the sight of her, fear creeping into the young boy’s eyes. She doubted he had seen more than twenty winters. He remembered her, though, or had heard the stories. The wild men—like their Gondorian counterparts—believed her to be some sort of sorceress. They believed if they refused her anything that she would bring doom upon them all. Since it made her dealings with them easier, she let them perpetuate the tale.

“Bring me your elders, boy.” Her voice was muffled by the storm, but he heard her clear enough and ran off into the maze of homes. Soon he returned and bid her to follow him into the larger of the cabins where, inside, three men awaited her. One of their wives was off in the corner huddled with the children, all of them staring with wide eyes. There was a new man, though, standing like a barrier before the elders. A new leader.

He let out a bellowing laugh at the sight of her, wiping the spit from the corner of his mouth before frowning. Turning to the others but keeping his eye on her he explained to his kin that she was no sorceress. That he had come upon a few in his time and that she was not of their kind. They looked at her as if she had shifted into the form of another woman, full of shock and awe that slowly but surely turned to anger. They had been deceived.

“I never claimed to be a sorceress, you and your people assumed as much.” She said sternly. “But now is not the time for arguments. I come to call your people to battle. Orcs move into the White Mountains as we speak and, if left unchallenged, they will build a nest and neither of us will have a forest to call home.”

“Liar!” One of the men called out, hiding behind his leader. “It wants t’ drive us out! It wants th’ forest for its own! We kills it!”

“Wants our young’uns for food, it does.” The other nodded. “Works with goblinses, most like. Kill. Kills ‘er!”

“Your children will be roasting on orc-built fires if we do not take them out now!” She was on the verge of pleading, but even as the words left her mouth she could see the wild men had fallen for the true sorcerer. He had poisoned them against her.

“It makes threats! It says words just like we thinks it will! Kill it, Brave Knife, tear its arms and make a feast!”

A bout of panic filled her as the group of them pulled out rusty blades and took steps closer. She held her ground for as long as she dared before growling at them all and trading her two legs for four. They chased after her, just like she had expected, but even though they knew these woods as well she knew them better. The paths were hers and the paths were secret; intricate lines that were never straight for too long. A road nearly untouched by anything but paws and hooves.

It took until she reached the base of the mountain and the edge of the forest for her to remember that she had a true last hope. One slivering possibility of salvation. In the distance the White Mountains curved around and the base of Minas Tirith’s lowest level could be seen. The steward’s son had said his words, but now that the time had come would he honour them? She had no other choice. No other options. If he failed her, she would lose everything and be forced to start anew. The fourth time a fresh start would be needed.

She could only hope it would not come to it.

The journey to the White City took nearly the rest of the day. Had the dark clouds at all given up, the sun would be seen descending on the horizon. Instead, the rain clouds blended into the black sky of Mordor in the distance. Faenorë approached the grandiose city from the east and stopped for a moment, admiring it.

With the great doors of the city closed to any visitors, the storm’s darkness shrouded her from the sight of Gondor’s watchmen. She stood on the fields, still panting from her journey, and debated whether or not to approach the doorsmen and request entry. _Would that not be the civilized thing to do?_ But she did not have the patience for the politics of due diligence. No part of her wanted to explain her wild-like appearance or her visible weapons. _They are not like to believe me if I say I know the steward’s son. They will think me a beggar or worse. No, I will not suffer their inquisitions; I will find my own way._

It always took more effort and patience to pull on the skin of something other than the wolf. She decided her best chance at success was to be the weather-beaten raven in the sky, unhindered by any guards. Once she had taken the feathered form, flying came naturally. The city was colossal; a spiraling masterpiece of circles and stone. It was intimidating, though, as a maze she had not yet conquered. So many confusing scents to be registered.

The raven perched on the outer wall of the second-highest level, small black eyes scanning the area for a hint of where to go. She continued to hop around the wall, blending in like a brick despite the stark contrast in colour. Most of the city folk had retreated indoors to escape the storm, but a few still lingered. None saw her.

Finally in a slightly elevated area of the level she spotted a group of guards outside a room. She found a small alleyway nearby that was deserted and shed the ravenskin, making sure the scent moving towards her through the rain matched what she remembered of the steward’s son. Only then did she break from the cover of the alley and set a path for what looked like a large hall.

Rain clung to her furs as she approached the large ornate doors. Two men stood guard, droplets of water pounding out a rhythm on their metal armor. As she neared they gripped their spears, exchanging looks with one another as if deciding what to make of her.

“Are you lost, my lady?” The right-most guard asked of her when she drew close enough to hear. “If it’s refuge you seek, the third level would suit you best. You will find a warm meal and a dry place to stay.”

“I must speak to the steward’s first born.” Her voice was strong even over the din of the rain. The men looked between each other once more, raising their eyebrows incredulously. “It is an urgent matter that cannot wait.”

Faenorë waited for no response and simply moved forward but was immediately met with resistance from the Gondorians. She frowned, ignoring their attempts to explain that she could not go inside the hall. The man tried to explain that he would pass on a message but it would not do. A sigh escaped her as she looked between the men before lurching into action. She shoved the both of them out of the way, tripping one and ducking out of the other’s grasp, putting all of her weight against the door and bursting through.

As she slipped into the stone hall, the quicker of the guards grabbed hold of her wrist in an attempt to stop her. The occupants of the room looked on at the spectacle of the strange woman incapacitating the metal-clad man. When he had fallen to his knees she backed away quickly, resisting the urge to pull her knife on him. _I am here for help,_ she reminded herself. _I have already hurt my chances of receiving it._

“Forgive us m’lords, we tried to stop her.” The guard from outside announced as he hobbled in, clutching his side.

“She is no enemy.” A familiar voice said softly, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Faenorë watched as the son of Denethor took a few cautious steps towards her. After a moment of silence he turned to the other men in the hall, all of them dressed in rich cloth, and informed them that the meeting would be resumed at a later time. “Beregond, please send for Faramir.”

“Yes, my lord.” The only other familiar face bowed slightly before filing out of the hall with the rest of the men. However, the guards remained and looked to their leader with weary eyes.

“Forgive me if I harmed you.” Faenorë forced out the courtesies in an attempt to smooth over the fracture she’d made amongst them all. With a nod from Boromir the guards accepted her apology and returned to their posts outside. The sound of the doors closing shut echoed throughout the hall, adding a layer to the sound of the rain.

She studied the room, admiring the brilliant paintings and detailed carvings and exquisite candelabras that lined the walls. A large wooden table took up most of the room, over a dozen chairs seated comfortably around it. Upon its surface were many maps and letters, along with a number of quills and ink wells. Only when her eyes finally settled on the man did she regret coming.

The last time she had seen him, a feeling had taken hold of her. And although she had been in his presence for a few minutes now, only when she made eye contact did she realize the feeling would not easily be stifled. It calmly spread through her body, creeping through her veins and settling at her toes and fingertips. It unnerved her, bringing back memories of a lifetime ago.

“Please, sit.” He seemed to spur from a trance, walking over and pulling out the chair at the head of the table for her. She hesitated for a moment before accepting his offer, watching as he sat adjacent from her. The gentle sound of water droplets fleeing her damp clothes and hair filled the hall.

“Do you still believe you owe me a debt, Boromir son of Denethor?” She spoke quickly but found herself unable to tear her eyes away from him. He looked tired, more weighed down than the last time. Yet still he held himself with some strange, impossible, balance of pride and humbleness.

“More than a single debt.” He replied confidently without hesitation. “A debt for the lives of each of my men you aided.”

“And if what I ask of you surpasses the act of housing a few men overnight, what would your decision be?” The words came out colder than she’d intended; _I’m expecting him to refuse me. I’m anticipating him to chase me out like the wild men_. And maybe a small part of her wanted him to, just so she had a reason to burn the feeling that had taken root throughout her.

“I will help you in any way that I can.” Boromir said sincerely. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as he rested an arm on the table. “Has something happened?”

“A rabble of orcs has moved into the White Mountains above the Drúadan. They outnumber me too greatly to attempt an ambush alone, and the wild men refuse to take up arms…” She could not recall the last time she felt so vulnerable, so dependent, so helpless. “There are no others to turn to. If I cannot kill them I will be forced from my home.”

With a nod he got to his feet and pushed in the great wooden chair he has sat in. From among the pieces of paper on the table he selected a map and pulled it closer. It depicted the White Mountains in detail, with Minas Tirith at the very bottom of the page and dozens of little arrows for trees. He asked for her to mark where it was the orcs had taken root. The map was foreign to her, and she started first with estimating where her home was amongst the trees. Standing beside him, she pressed her index finger on the spot and used her other to draw a line to the lands of the wild men and from there traced back to the approximate location of the orcs.

Only afterwards did she realize she had shown him her home, if he had sense enough to pay attention. The thought terrified her, but not as much as how close he leaned when he studied the map. She watched as his eyes danced over the paper for a few moments before he straightened up. His eyes met hers and she looked away immediately. He asked the number of the orcs and moved towards the door when she gave her best guess. Faenorë assumed he meant for her to leave and let the anger bubble within as she jumped to her feet.

“I will round up my men and at first light we will make for the mountains.” Boromir announced as he reached the door. “Faramir will be here shortly, ask of him whatever you require for the night and he will bring you to a room.”

“You—You’re helping me?” She said incredulously. He couldn’t seem to understand her confusion. “Your men could die, _you_ could die.”

“You could have died fighting those wargs.” Boromir said plainly. “I made a promise, my lady. I intend to honour it.”

With that he left, the door closing gently behind him. She stood alone in the hall that was nearly three times the size of her home and allowed her eyes to wander. Water still dripped down onto the ground as she moved throughout the room. The flames from the candles swayed gently from some unseen breeze, shadows dancing along the walls. She studied nearly every detail the room had to offer but grew anxious in the unfamiliar territory.

“Faenorë.” The voice was familiar, as was the face. Faramir, the second-born, was shaking off the rain from his leather and mail. He had a sweet smile upon his face and eyes lit up with wonder. Strange as it was, seeing him to her was like seeing a child’s spirit wrapped in a man’s body. Whatever suspicion she held for the city and its people, she knew Faramir was no threat.

“Has your arm healed?” She asked as he cautiously drew closer. He looked down at the limb she spoke of and outstretched it, moving it around to showcase its mobility.

“Better than ever, and all thanks to you.” His hands fell to his sides as he moved back towards the door. “Do you wish to see your room?”

“Can I not return home and meet with the soldiers at sunrise?” She blurted out anxiously. The notion of being cooped up in a foreign city half the height of the mountains made her uneasy, but more than that she refused to be held hostage by a group of men on account of a deal.

“No one will keep you here against your will, my lady.” He replied as if sensing her fears. “The city is yours to leave or return to as you wish. I only…If the threat lies close to your home, I thought it would be safer for you to stay.”

Guilt filled her as she looked at Faramir. He only wished for her to avoid unnecessary harm. After she mustered a quiet apology (which he brushed off) he led her out into the storm. It was much less of a storm now, though, and the rain softly brushed against her skin instead of pummeling into it. Despite her silence, though, the steward’s son barely took a breath. He took great pride in telling her all about the streets they walked through. _Here_ was where the best pies were made. _There_ was where Boromir had once broken his arm.

Moving through two levels there was much to see; blacksmiths, butchers, basket-weavers, all of them had names and families and stories to match. What caught her interest the most, though, was the mention of a library. The only library she had ever seen was a small bookshelf in the house of Beorn. Skinwalkers had little use of books, but Beorn had taught her to read all the same. He said it was an important skill now that they were nomads. She would need to rely on herself where her ancestors relied on the community.

“A library?” She said, stopping suddenly in the middle of the street and staring in the direction that Faramir had pointed to. He looked back at her and then at the door, nodding.

“Would you like to see it?” He asked with bright eyes. When she nodded a grin took over his face and she wondered if he truly knew how easily his emotions dominated his expressions. “My favoured place is in the libraries rather than the battlefields. Some of the books are older than the city.”

Through the door a staircase wound down, down, down, growing ever colder. Faramir carried a single torch to light the path, but when they at last reached the bottom the place was well lit. A group of old men were already dispersed within the library, speaking in hushed voices. But they were nothing compared to the sight of the room. The shelves were filled with books and dust and pieces of parchment hanging half-way out. It seemed to go on forever. She could barely fathom how so many books even existed; who had written them all? Who had the time to mark down all those different letters and thoughts?

“Most are histories of different realms or cities. There are maps as well, if you like. And personal accounts of significant events—the fall of Sauron, the destruction of Arnor, the fate of the Palantírs—but there are a few fables as well that some believe were rooted in truth. Those are my favourite.”

A small smile claimed her face and he mimicked the gesture, watching as she cautiously approached the bookshelves. She claimed a few of the delicate things for herself and took a seat at one of the tables to admire them. Faramir did the same and the two almost-strangers immersed themselves in thoughts that echoed through time. After some time Faramir seemed to snap out of a trance and announced that his brother would not know where to look for them, and had been expecting to find them in her temporary quarters.

She hesitated at the thought of leaving the books but he kindly informed her that she could bring them with her. Gathering them into her arms, she followed after the steward’s son as he led her through the labyrinth that was Minas Tirith. The rain had finally given up and the dark clouds were giving way to a bright night sky. The door that opened for her led into a room nearly as big as her whole cabin. A grand bed sat in the centre of the room, but all around there were things to discover. The walls were stone and thus unfamiliar to her in a domestic setting. A few tapestries decorated the grey surfaces. There were familiar elements, though. A wooden desk, dresser, and chair had been carved by seasoned hands and were of far better quality than the furniture she made for herself. All of this, though, was overshadowed by the terrace.

Faenorë set the books on the bed and wandered out to greet the night. The view nearly took her breath away. She had been high up in the mountains before, but this was a different thing entirely. People had _built_ the entire city she looked upon. Stone by stone, and partially carved into the mountainside, this colossal city was created. It took her nearly five moons to make her small cabin, and that was with the help of Grimhelm.

“It’s beautiful.” She breathed. “Impossible…and strong. Has it always been so big?”

“It was built in the second age by the brother of Isildur,” Boromir began, causing her to spin around. He was watching her with calm curiosity. “And rebuilt in the third age by King Ostoher.”

“Did you talk to father?” Faramir asked quietly, eyes intently focused on his older brother. Faenorë leaned against the stone bannister and watched the conversation unfold.

“He agreed. We will take fifteen men from the city guard and set out at first light.”

“Fifteen men?” She straightened up and crossed over to him, searching his face for confirmation and finding only half-buried guilt.

“Boromir, the orcs alone double our count.” Faramir reasoned, but his brother’s eyes remained on the woman. “It does not include the wargs they may have brought with them.”

“Father does not want to risk the men when our Osgiliath lay weakened already. He fears another attack on the river city.” Boromir reasoned before turning away from the both of them all together. “I will do as he asks.”

“I should not have come.” The woman said wearily, tightening the furs around her and making for the door. Boromir called out for her to stop and she hesitated before turning to face him. “It is not that I do not want your help—Yours was the only hope I had left—but so few numbers…The risk is too much. Fifteen against thirty at least; it will end in bloodshed and all will be for naught.”

“You underestimate the power of Gondor.” He said with a small smirk. “We have faced worse odds before and come out victorious.”

“In the mountains amidst foreign lands and tricky trees? I will not ask these people to die.” It hurt to acknowledge it. She had lost. Somewhere out there her new home waited. “I will find another forest.”

“Faenorë,” Boromir reached out and gently grabbed her shoulder as she turned the handle. The contact made her heart race, but not nearly as much as the determination in his voice. “I made an oath. To you, and to the realm of Gondor. I will not let orcs drive my people from these lands. It is our duty to triumph over evil, my lady. And Gondor will see it done.”

\------------------

It had been a sleepless night for the skinwalker. She tossed and turned and when she did sleep, nightmares took her. In them, the forest burned and the Gondorians lay dead and the orcs feasted on their flesh. When she woke with a cold sweat, she reminded herself that they were only fears. She reminded herself of Faramir’s promise that his brother’s words were true.

 _We will help you make your lands safe once more._ He’d said after his brother left. _Boromir is the greatest warrior in the realm. He will not fail you._

The words comforted her as she readied herself for the battle. Her weapons were freshly sharpened and her clothes and furs washed by a woman. It baffled her, that if you bore a name or a rank others would do your chores for you. She had only ever done things for herself. Food was brought to her and she broke her fast in solitude, mulling over the plan of attack. Her mind floated back to Faramir’s words, though. Not the ones that gave her comfort, the ones that did not.

_The men tease that Boromir has love only for battle and ale. He takes no interest in the women…But I see that has changed quite suddenly._

She had forgotten what it felt like to blush. Her whole face had felt hot when she turned away from the steward’s son. The sensation lingered even now as she reflected on the memory, but was quickly wiped clean when there was a knock on her door. Standing, she took a moment to straighten her appearance before opening the door. Boromir stood before her clad in fine armor embellished with the symbol of Gondor. Between the plates he wore well-crafted chainmail, and on bore a longsword at his waist.

“Asta awaits you in the stables, my lady.” He said with a small bow. She managed a thank you and cast one look back at the room that had briefly been hers. A part of her would miss it. Although she would forever long for the openness of the forest, it was satisfying in some foreign way to be so far up and well protected. She fell in step with Boromir as he led her through the city. “Is there anything you require before we depart?”

Faenorë shook her head but was paying much more attention to the look of the city in the brimming daylight. It was an entirely different place. However grand it seemed before, it was tenfold that in the natural light. There were many city folk about already as well; each giving her a strange look while bowing to the steward’s first born.

In the stables Asta stirred, pacing back and forth against the bridle tying her to the wooden enclosement. Faenorë crossed to her quickly and calmed the animal with gentle words, freeing her and giving her a treat before mounting. Boromir claimed a horse as big as Asta from the adjoining stall and mounted, nodding to the stable boy as he led the way through the rest of the city.

The first level held the courtyard and the main gates, in front of which the chosen men had assembled. Among them were the familiar faces of Faramir and Beregond, but she was glad to see Eregion was not with the group. Boromir rode to the head of the column as the gates were heaved open and turned to face the men.

“We ride for the Eastern White Mountains. If we are blessed with speed we will reach them before midday, and from there we will lead our attack on foot against the orcs. By nightfall we shall return to celebrate another victory for Gondor!”

The men echoed the cry _for Gondor!_ With a nod to the skinwalker, Boromir turned his steed and lead the column out of the city. Faenorë rode at his side, glad to have Asta back with her. The horse had been well taken care of but cooped up in strange quarters with strange people. She was used to the openness of the forest, and so with the wide fields of Pelennor to run through the horse took full advantage.

Only one rest was taken, despite the assurance of the men that they had no need of it. Their leader, however, didn’t want to risk them or their horses weakened when strength was needed most. It was a strategic decision that she favoured entirely. They ate bread and dried fruit and drank from their canteens before setting out again. Boromir led them along the edge of the forest until he reached a point only he knew, then stopped and turned to the skinwalker.

“I will rely on your guidance from here, my lady.” He dismounted and fixed his gloves as she joined him on the ground. “Felsteer, round the horses up and keep watch. If we are not back by sunset bring the news back to my father. The rest, with me.”

“They must move quietly.” She warned, hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm. He nodded and relayed the message to his men. Faenorë had half the mind to take the wolfskin, but knew it would be easier to lead them on two feet.

The woods were quiet and peaceful, just as she left it, but the smells were all off. Even as a human she could tell they were here. She left Boromir to tend to his men, only busying herself with getting them to the location as quickly and quietly. It was an uphill climb but the Gondorians did a good job at keeping up with her. When at last she stopped all of them needed to catch their breath, and she took the opportunity to discuss strategy with the leader.

“We are approaching the cave entrance from the western side. If you position your men along the flanks of the entrance the ambush may yet be successful. I can lead half of the men to the other side, then distract the orcs inside to lure them out. The guards will come first, but save your arrows for the ones with crossbows.”

“How do you mean to lure them out?” He asked as the men brandished their weapons. “They are not like to send their whole group out.”

“They won’t come out until I go in. As a wolf, the wargs at least will chase me, if not the orcs as well. I would advise to post lookouts twenty feet away from the main lines in the event some of the orcs or wargs are on patrol.”

“You cannot go in alone.” He exclaimed, eyebrows furrowing. “You do not know where they may be waiting. I will go with you.”

“The men need you here to lead them. I have been in these caves before, I recall their twists and turns. The trees block enough sunlight for the orcs to venture out, but they will not stay for long. We have little time, even less to spend arguing. Which of your men will I take?”

He hesitated for a moment, eyes burning into hers, before finally caving. Faramir was to be the leader of the second party and he chose men to go with him. When they had been divided into two groups Boromir gave them the instructions she had given to him, and then they were off. Faenorë led the troop of soldiers through secret paths until she saw fit to bring the back near the mouth of the cave. When they were in position she wished them luck and took on the skin of the wolf.

Only then did she feel any fear creep into her heart. She had been in the caves before, yes, but it was years ago. The orcs could have changed them for all she knew. But there were orcs in there, and wargs too. Plenty of them. As she edged closer to the entrance she was hit with their overwhelming stench, but layered on it was the smell of the men. The smell of the man. She pushed forward with the knowledge that she had allies waiting for her.

The wolf moved quickly once inside the caves, keeping to the shadows of the empty corridors and following the sounds. They led her past a few slumbering orcs and wargs, but she needed bigger bait. The lot of them were found in the biggest clearing, feasting on some blackened meat and adding putrid smells to the already nauseating scent. To the left a warg slept, legs twitching in its dream state. She made her move.

The throat was ripped out so easily for a beast so vicious. Its cries caught the attention of everything in the caves and they immediately sprung on her. She evaded them with ease and spun, bounding out of the clearing in the direction she’d come. They followed after her with battle cries and growls and swords smashing together. The ones she’d passed didn’t have time to react as she bolted past them and barrelled into the forest.

Orcs were foolish and rash, to her advantage. They followed her into the woods and right into the trap. Immediately arrows were loose and men ran forward with their glistening swords. A warg came at her and the two of them battled, her eye nearly getting torn out as the thing swung its great big paw. She left it to bleed to death and immediately morphed back to her human form, pulling her sword from its sheath.

Boromir had gone where the battle was thickest, and for a moment she was stunned at the spectacle of him fighting. He looked the part of the warrior, of course, but he defined it as well. He moved the great longsword with ease, delivering accurate and deadly blows with each swing. For all the chain mail and steel plating, he moved surprisingly fast. It impressed her. It motivated her. It gave her hope. _He_ gave her hope.

Orcs flanked her with eager weapons and launched an attack. She evaded them, watching as one rammed into the other with his blade by accident. Killing the remaining, the skinwalker worked her way to Boromir’s side. She was pulled to him like a moth to the flames; only here the fire was cool and the flames welcoming.

The men fought hard, but they were better matched against the orcs than the wargs. The beasts were dangerously lethal up close, as some of the men were like to find out. And orc threw itself at the Captain of Gondor and he cut off its head, barely blinking before moving onto the next one. She realized that, even though she was in the midst of a fight for the freedom of her homeland, she was captivated by him.

But the cries of a man tore her attention away. The wargs began to team up on men and the orcs still outnumbered them. Boromir caught her gaze before she shifted back into wolf form and went bounding after the beasts. There were three of them in a group ready to make a meal of a soldier, but she climbed atop the tallest one and savagely sank her teeth into him.

Orders were being called out in the Common Tongue but she was too focused to heed them. The other two attacked, landing bites of their own. She used all her force to rip them limb from limb, both relishing and fearing the fact that the cries called over the other wargs. As the blood dripped from her mouth five wargs surrounded her. She readied herself for the attack when the ones before her cowered for a moment at something behind her.

Boromir had hacked almost entirely through one of the warg’s heads. There were few moments of a stalemate before everything sprang into action. Faenorë fought side by side with the steward’s son in impossible synchronization. Even as a wolf he seemed to anticipate her attacks and complemented them as he saw fit. She felt unstoppable.

When there were only two left she exchanged four feet for two, throwing a dagger between one’s eyes. Boromir slayed the last one and turned to face his companion but the ecstasy on her face quickly faded as he barreled towards her. His body pinned her to the ground as he released a low cry of pain. She could not take the closeness, not even in such a scenario, but he soon got to his knees and studied the arrow lodged in his shoulder.

Faenorë wasted no time in tending to him—she doubted an arrow to the shoulder would slow him down—and sped off towards the orc who had loosed the arrow. She found him in the bushes and took off his head before looking around at the battle. For a moment she doubted what she saw, but Faramir was wandering towards her with a small smile. _They did it. They won. They brought me salvation._

“Are they all dead?” She asked when he drew near, trying to count the orc corpses from where she stood.

“A few men went to search the caves. Any who came out are either dead or have fled.” He looked around as the soldiers began to group around. “Where is Boromir?”

She turned to look in the direction she had come from and saw the Captain walking towards them. A small smile took over her face as their eyes met, but it was wiped away instantly when an orc came from behind a tree. It slammed a club against the back of his head and would have continued to beat him as he fell to the ground had Faramir’s arrow not pierced his heart. Faenorë sped to the fallen soldier’s side and inspected his limp body.

“Is he…” Faramir began, unable to finish the thought. The skinwalker leaned close and listened to the shallow breaths escaping him before shaking her head fervently. “We must take him to the houses of healing. Quickly. Will you show us the way?”

With no more orcs to fear alerting, Faenorë sped through the forest as fast as she could. The men trailed behind her tired and bloody, but determined all the same. It was much quicker getting to the clearing than it was finding the caves, and soon enough the horses were in view. Felsteer readied the horses as everyone approached, asking the nearest man for news of the battle.

The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, and if they rode hard they had a chance to return before nightfall. Faramir took his brother on his steed while Faenorë trailed closely behind. She had set Asta to return to the cabin before leaving and claimed Boromir’s horse for the journey. She did not like to imagine what would happen if the Captain of Gondor did not wake. It was her fault entirely and she did not believe any would ever forget that. The people loved him and his death would make her a villain. They would hunt her. But nothing would compare to the way she would hunt herself.

When they at last returned to the city and were let through the gates, Faramir led her to the sixth level of the city where the Houses of Healing stood. Inside he carried his brother, setting him down on a station while healers immediately flocked to him. They brought out herbs and salves for the arrow wound while some worked at peeling off the armour and mail until he lay in only his plainclothes. After bandaging up his wound they said that nothing else could be done and we could only wait.

Faenorë huffed and pushed them out of the way, grabbing ingredients for herself and making a concoction of her own. For a moment he stirred, looking at the woman and breathing her name, but he was gone again. Her heart was a beating drum. Faramir assured the healers that whatever Faenorë would attempt would not put Boromir in harm. She mixed the familiar ingredients into the bowl of water and leaned over the man, gently placing drops on his eyes, his lips, and over his heart. After that she submerged his hands in the liquid to coat them, and then did the same to herself. The door burst open as she took his hands and the whole room grew silent in the shadow of a tall man with long grey hair.

“Where is he?!” He roared, pushing past healers. “Where is my first-born?”

Faramir immediately got up and blocked the man’s path as the woman regained her focus. She began to speak the old words, the ones that none of her people ever remembered or forgot. The magic was a feeling, a desire that could not be taught through knowledge and skill. It was a part of them. A part of her. She gripped his hands tightly, breathing each syllable into his slightly agape mouth. Faramir was relaying the story of what had happened when the Captain’s hands started to tighten around hers. The magic coursed through her and entered him, glistening through the water and turning every wet spot bright blue. When the light went out there were a few moments of absolute silence and then a sharp intake of breath.

When Boromir sat up his lips nearly brushed against hers, and the action forced her backwards. She released his hands but he held on, catching his breath but staring at only her. She could not place the look on his face—was it fear or wonder? When she moved to stand he kept her there.

“You…You spoke to me. Came to me…in a dream.”

“Boromir, my son.” The grey-haired man pushed past Faramir and came to his bedside. “What did she do to you?”

“It was only magic.” Faenorë said in her defense, finally wriggling free and getting to her feet. The response seemed to infuriate the man. The steward. He narrowed his eyes at her.

“You dare try to bewitch my first-born?” He hissed, leaping to his feet. “Witchcraft! Sorcery! Arrest her!”

Faenorë could not believe the words coming out of his mouth. The guards that had come with the steward hesitated before moving towards her. Faramir began to protest but she gave him no reason to continue. With fury filling her lungs, she turned on her heel and sped to the window, slipping into the skin of the raven and disappearing into the night sky. Of course she had been foolish to think it could have ended peacefully on all fronts. The men were not to be trusted, wild or not. _I will always be an outsider. I will always be an enemy._


	3. Banished and Battle-Bound

It was almost disorienting, going from a place so full of people to her small secluded cabin. Years alone had gotten her used to the sound of silence; to the absolute lack of human contact. But now that she had experienced it, some part of her craved it. A tiny part that she did her very best to cover and conceal, but the days felt longer in the absence of conversation. How had a few brief encounters with city dwellers changed her so fundamentally—so easily?

The memories of the brief time amongst others invaded her mind day and night. Try as she might to block them with the tasks which required her attention, they remained. But however sweet, they were always followed by her last moments in the white city. The last words shouted at her. For Denethor, in his rage, had followed her all the way to the window and screamed the words out after her. _You are banished from this city under pain of death._

She cursed under her breath as the needle pierced her thumb. Throwing the half-sewn garment onto the table, she pressed on her finger in an attempt to stop the blood. It was only a pinprick, yet still the red liquid found a way to the surface. After a few moments it ceased and she resumed her work, moving the needle in and out of the fabric until the seam was complete. In the yard a bear hide was stretched out on a rack to dry completely. When that was ready she could attach it to the coat liner and have a replacement for her tattered one.

The animals still needed to be fed and the garden needed to be weeded and she had to prepare more jams to fill the cellar with. In her mind a list began to pile of all the chores that needed to be done. It was just past midday and soon, on top of everything else, she would need to go for a run in the woods to make sure no orcs had returned.

Outside of the cabin Asta grew restless, whinnying up a storm in a most unusual fashion. The horse only ever acted that way when an animal strayed into the clearing, but Faenorë trusted the horse’s antics to scare it off. She moved to clear the sewing materials from the table when a sound froze her to the spot. Two knocks sounded against the wooden door across from her and glued her to the spot.

In an instant her dagger was drawn. Was it possible that someone had gotten lost in the woods and managed to find her cabin? _I chose this spot because it is so far out of the way_. The only thing preventing her from shifting into an animal and sneaking up on the visitor was the fact that if they had truly posed any threat, they likely would not have knocked. The sound came again and she took a deep breath before crossing to the door. With a steady hand she reached out to turn it, leaving it open only a crack before backing up behind it. A gloved hand gently pushed it open and a man stepped into the cabin. She pressed her dagger to his throat just as the man took in a breath to speak. Only when she moved to look at him did she recognize the steward’s son.

“How did you find…” She began, but thought back to the incident in the hall. He had seen the map, of course. Her lips pursed as she lowered the blade and stepped back from him, stepped back from the things she felt around him. “Did you bring others?”

“I came alone.” Boromir promised, hovering at the doorway. There was a tear in his cloak that matched the claws of a bear, and she wondered what turmoil he went through to find this place once more. When she looked away from him he took a deep breath. “I must apologize for the way you were treated. It was no manner with which to act towards a…friend.”

“I have no use for apologies. What is done, is done.” She snapped coldly, turning her back on him and busying herself with cleaning the table. “The past cannot be changed by soft words from a messenger. If you are even that. I doubt Lord Denethor sent these words at all.”

“He does, Faenorë. My father is a noble man…but his rule is failing and our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored…I spoke with him of the events that passed and he revoked the banishment laid upon you—”

Faenorë spun at his words and took two quick steps towards him, absolutely fuming. The captain of Gondor braced himself for the oncoming storm and met her eyes as she roared.

“I am so tired of you men and your politics! They think because they call themselves king and sit in a big chair that it means anything? If you walk into a pack of wolves, do you think they will respect the title? No. Because it is nothing more than a word that you all bow down to. Would the Anduin part itself if your lord father moved the borders of Gondor? Would the Drúadan move closer if he wished for more game to hunt? _Banished_. If the soldiers refused to keep me out what good would his banishment be? We are nothing more than passengers in this world, Boromir. The trees and lakes and animals and plains were here long before the first men called themselves king, and will be here long after we are all dead. You cannot banish someone from a place that does not belong to you.”

Her whole body seemed to sigh when she was finished, all the rage having seeped out. She could feel the wetness welling in her eyes and she sighed, looking down at the ground and walking a few steps away from him again. Guilt immediately began to work its way into her from the fingertips right to the core. They stood in silence for what felt like hours before Boromir finally risked a response.

“What you say is true…But there is courage also, and honour to be found in men.”

Faenorë had a hundred responses that she wished to unleash, each one harsher than the last, but she kept her tongue. She had given him enough poison for one day, and none of it had been intended for him in the first place. All she could do was watch him and try to ignore the tug at her heart while he looked on with hopeful eyes. When he seemed certain that she would say no more, his head lowered slightly.

“Despite what my father may have believed, I know what you did in the Houses of Healing.” He said confidently. “I could feel death taking hold of me, and then your voice was there like a light in the darkness. Whatever you did, I owe you my life.”

“The debt is settled, Captain of Gondor.” Her tone was softer this time, but he knew he would find no warm reunion here. With a single nod he moved forward, eyes trained on her while he set something down on the table. She studied the decorated horn with furrowed eyebrows as he retreated to the doorway.

“If you should ever again require help, Faenorë of the Drúadan, the horn of Gondor will rally my people to your cause.”

With that he gave a small bow and closed the door behind him. She watched the wooden barrier, eyes forced open in an attempt to keep them dry. The horn lay against the dark wood in stark contrast; a glimmering beacon of a memory she finally understood she would never be able to purge herself of. Within her she felt the urge surfacing and before her mind could catch up, her feet were rushing to the door.

Wrenching it open, she called after the retreating figure. He turned around, taken back by the sudden appearance, but stopped nonetheless. She wanted to apologize, wanted to tell him that it was his father she was angry with, not him. But she could not coerce the words out of her throat, and so she did the only other thing her body allowed.

Crossing over to the steward’s son in quick determined steps, she brought her hand to the back of his neck and crashed her lips against his. He faltered for a moment at the unexpected gesture, but as she pressed a hand against his chest his body responded. Chainmail-clad arms wrapped around her small frame and held her against him. She gripped his cloak with both hands as he held her cheek with a gloved hand. When she could no longer breathe they broke apart, foreheads resting against one another and chests heaving.

It was as if parting had somehow revived her sense of fear, and she took a step away from the Gondorian. Her eyes went wide, every part of her that had been filled with satisfaction and release now being conquered by panic. Boromir watched her carefully in an attempt to gauge how best to act next, but she did not give the captain a choice. Instead, Faenorë’s speeding heart got the better of her and she retreated back into the cabin. The door locked behind her and the steward’s son was left standing alone in the clearing with nothing but her lingering scent to grasp at.

\-----------------

In the woods, things were always quiet. Noise was the unusual; snippets of it punctuated the otherwise hushed atmosphere. An animal’s far off cry, the snap of a twig, the thud of a pine cone falling to the ground, these were the sounds that proved life continued. These were the sounds that reminded her she had some semblance of control over her life. For in dreams, she was utterly helpless.

Dreams always brought her back to him: the stranger in the forest who, by rights, she never should have seen again. It would have been so much simpler if he’d been like all the others before him—nothing but a memory. And yet this steward’s son had rooted deep within her mind, slowly growing outwards with reaching tendrils like a vine left unchallenged. But she did challenge it, every day. Only the vines were made of steel and the roots of stone and her attempts were naught more than leaves.

The guilt, of course, was just as persistent. Guilt for yelling at him, guilt for kissing him, but most of all guilt for leaving him. It ate away at her insides each time she passed the spot on the path. _In my dreams we are together atop the glistening white city. In my dreams the people welcome me with open arms and warm smiles_. But if Denethor was any indication of how others viewed her, she would never find a home in Minas Tirith. _Then why do I so greatly wish to return?_

Faenorë was gripped with a sudden determination. Abandoning the flute she was whittling, she gathered her weapons and found Asta in the yard. After throwing down fresh feed for the animals she mounted the horse and set off down the long-since memorized path. The trees were nothing more than brown blurs at her side, punctuated occasionally by a ray of sunlight. At this pace she would arrive in the afternoon.

She had no idea what she would say upon arriving, though. True, the captain of Gondor had given her leave of the city, but nowhere was it explained what words need accompany her return. It had been nearly a fortnight since the moment in the woods; she could not know how the men would receive her. Faenorë did her best to keep these thoughts on the path ahead of her and not the one that trailed behind.

Asta’s long legs carried them across the open plains, edging ever closer to the heart of Gondor. When the city came into view her heart sped up, but then stopped altogether at the sight of smoke. It billowed high into the sky from the city on the river; an unmistakeable flag of battle. The horse halted on her command as she studied the situation, deciding what to do. _I have returned to see him again, and he will be no other place than the thick of battle._

With that she sped off towards Osgiliath; the sounds of fighting growing louder with every moment. Iron and steel clashing, bones breaking, skin splitting—she had been new enough to the fifteen soldiers fighting orcs in the woods, but this was an _army_. As she neared the city she doubted there were fewer than five-hundred men. _Can that many men even fit in a place? So many of them. And many more orcs._

What was a single skinwalker in a swarm of chain mail and iron? _I am a drop in the ocean, here_. The fear gripped hold of her heart fiercely, crushing it with bone-cold fingers and impossible strength even as she moved towards the ruins. The screams nearly stopped the beating thing all-together; and she watched in horror as an orc threw a man from a tower, his body landing with a silencing _crack_ on the stone steps.

The instinctual side was roaring for her to flee. To run back to the forest where the biggest predator could be her, if she wanted. But the blade in her hand told her to stay, and led her deep into the ruins before she had time to think better of the choice. The orcs, though, were _everywhere_. She had no time to calmly formulate some sort of a plan; immediately she was pulled into combat with two brutish orcs. They nearly took her arm off before she cut off their heads and went running up the nearest flight of stairs.

All of the city had been laid to ruin. There were few safe places to hide if any, which only made her all the more nervous—and then she heard him. His great big booming voice, echoing against the broken walls and enduring memory of a city once strong as his swordhand. He was calling out for the men to be strong, to stand their ground and destroy the enemy. _A common enemy_ , she thought, _these orcs are my foe as well._ In one swing of his sword three orcs met their fate, and the Captain of Gondor ordered the men at his side to move east through the city.

He stayed where he was to hold off the few remaining orcs and Faenorë dealt with one as it crept up the stairs. Kicking its corpse to the side, she looked down in time to see the largest orc she’d ever encountered hoisting up its great axe. His name escaped her throat in a scream, feet pushing off of the platform. Her body collided against the creature’s, blade delving into the spot between its armor. She twisted the blade to get at its heart until it released a wail and collapsed backwards.

“Faenorë?” His voice was strained from shortness of breath as she clambered off of the corpse. She turned and watched as he put his blade through the face of the last orc before turning back to face her. “What are you—”

A piercing cry unlike anything she had ever heard scratched at her ears. She cried out, the both of them clutching at their heads as a colossal shadow blocked out the sky. The sound of wings made her heart race, but Boromir’s explanation made it stop altogether. _Nazgûl_ , he mumbled. _Stay out of sight_. She watched it fly overhead and the impulsive part of her made a silly decision in response to silly feelings for the man whose hand brushed her arm. He ran off in the direction of the battle, ran off to get himself killed by the thing in the sky. _Nazgûl are only known to fear one creature,_ the Gondorian book had read, _the great eagles of the north_.

She had never taken the skin of an eagle, let alone a giant one, but she _had_ been plenty of other birds. All she could hope for was that it would be a similar transition. As she ran up the stairs and started running along the broken rooftops, part of her wondered if it would be easier to try and be a Nazgûl—fight fire with fire. But there was one thing she was certain of: creatures from Mordor were not like normal beasts. They had all been poisoned and tortured in some way to make them evil. No part of her wanted that sort of darkness in her, not even as a memory.

The beast was knocking over stone towers as if they were paper as she prepared for the shift. When the rooftop dropped off, she leapt into the open air and grew wings of her own. It was so foreign; she felt stretched out and dizzy and for a moment blanked on how to fly. The fell creature’s cry solidified her in the form, though, and she set a course for it. _A plan beyond this would have been better_.

It was only when she neared the thing that she saw the figure sitting atop its back. A man, it seemed, cloaked in all black. His face was hidden beneath a hood and no part of his skin was left untouched by cloth or metal. It turned towards her and she realized the scream didn’t come from the beast, it came from the man. She hesitated for the briefest of moments before leading the Nazgûl on a chase through the cloud-covered skies.

Her biggest advantage was that although the beast’s size granted it power, it also burdened it with weight. The eagle was lighter and swifter and able to confuse the thing with quick turns and sharp dives. It at least gave the men below a chance without the threat of falling stones to add to their troubles. From high up she could see the battle focused in a small area, but they were all little ants and she could not tell friend from foe.

A fierce growl stole away her attention and she turned to face the beast. Its jaws boasted rows of large teeth, strings of drool hanging between them. The neck was long and proved as a safe enough distance from the wings, the tail, and the rider. Despite the teeth there was no real threat. _Despite the many sharp, dangerous teeth that could likely rip me in half._

She was already on it, though, and had no chance to swerve away. It was now or never; so she dove down to get it confused and barrelled back upwards, using her talons to claw at the thing’s eyes. It rolled away with a cry of pain and immediately retreated, flying crooked through the sky as she watched in victory. There was a cold feeling in her chest that slowly dissolved into a sharp pain that shocked her out of the eagleskin. A scream was caught in her throat as her body plummeted towards the city below. A stick was standing out of her like a flagpole, the wind whipping her hair with a fury as her stomach rose to her throat. She tried to shift again, but warmth was seeping out of her and the pain spread like a forest fire. Her body hit the rushing water of the Anduin River and began to sink down, down, down…

Her limbs kicked out of some basic survival instinct, but the cold water had forced all the air from her lungs and she had no energy to swim or morph. She wanted to fight, wanted to rip her way back to the surface—back to the reasons she had to live—but she also wanted to sleep. The water was a blanket now; a blanket and a bed after a hard day’s work. A hard _life’s_ work. It welcomed her with open arms and she was certain that just a little sleep wouldn’t hurt. But like an unwelcome sound in the middle of the night she was wretched from the comfort and thrown into a world of loudness and crashes and noise and most of all _pain_. It continued to resonate in her, mimicking the burning of her lungs as she coughed up water and heaved in air.

There was warmth against her cheek—a warmth that differed from the blood that was soaking into her clothes—and when she could finally open her eyes against the blinding brightness it was his face she saw. He was screaming for Faramir and mumbling something about her guarantee of recovery; but all she could do was lay her hand over his. The sounds of battle had faded away, but where there should have been cries of victory there was only silence. She wondered how many men had lost their lives in the ghost city today.

“I’m—alright.” She forced out, sitting up on her own accord. Boromir tried to keep her still as she winced but Faenorë got to her feet and took deep breaths, fingers grazing the arrow hanging out of her chest. While she was thinking about the fact that she should be dead, the steward’s son exchanged words with Faramir. Men were starting to gather round them all, eyes stuck on the strange woman who had fallen from the sky where a bird had once been.

“You need to see a healer.” Faramir announced, cautiously taking her elbow at his brother’s nod and leading her out of the city. Boromir’s voice boomed words of victory behind them as she stumbled over corpses—of men, of orcs, and of the stone city alike. Each step and each breath wiggled the post in her chest, but she clenched her teeth and pushed on. It was a short journey to Minas Tirith that she was determined to make herself. Mounting Asta one-handed, Faramir led the way back to the colossal city that invaded her dreams.

The Houses of Healing would be full soon, but with the announcement of battle came the preparation of the healers. Compared to the last time she’d been in the place, it seemed that those people who had become permanent residents of the healing quarters had been moved around to make room for the impending ocean of wounded soldiers. The healers took one look at the arrow and beckoned the girl forward with busy hands, setting her down on a cot near the window and immediately setting to work.

One of them cast a look at Faramir as the others began to pull off her clothing, and after shooing him she drew a curtain around the group of them all for privacy. The tip of the arrow protruded from Faenorë’s back, preventing her from lying down properly. Rather they kept her on her side and offered a drink to dull the pain and a wooden stick to bite down on before they began. The skinwalker watched as one of them disappeared, returning with a small saw in her grasp. Hands held her whole body steady as the leader gripped the tail of the arrow. The movement was enough to make her cringe and her eyes well up, but the first cut was the worst.

Each saw, back and forth, sent an electric shock through her body that—despite her resolve to stay strong, despite her determination to bear the pain in silence—forced screams out of her throat. Out of reflex she tried to move away, to escape the dreaded saw and the hurt it brought, but the healers all held her in place like stone shackles. That the arrow had missed her heart was a miracle entirely, but as the sawing continued in slow bursts she felt anything but lucky.

Her body was spared the trauma for brief moment when the tail of the arrow was finally severed. She breathed once, twice, three times, and then was rolled over slightly so the rest could be pulled out. As soon as the wood began to pass through her, the screams came once more. Only, this time they were mingling with the moans and groans of soldiers as they were delivered into the Houses of Healing. Blood trickled down her bare torso, rivers of red against snow-covered fields. A battlefield of her own.

“Lethien, stitch the back. Turienne, the front. Apply the salve and wrap her afterwards.” The leader said as she wiped the blood from her hands before disappearing entirely; and this time, for good. The healers worked quickly to fulfill their orders, each one of them understanding that with each passing second, more and more men were being delivered who needed to be cared for. None of this knowledge, though, helped to ease the pain in Faenorë’s chest. Even when the salve cooled her skin and her wounds were wrapped, it lingered like a long-forgotten burn mark that had only recently been kissed by flames again. Only, the flames ran along the inside where no water could hope to soothe them.

They left her to dress herself and she delayed the action, lying on the soft cot and trying to feel the magic in hopes it would take away the pain. The words were caught in a dull haze within, locked away by the part of her still stuck in the whirlwind of events. How long had it been since so many people had touched her? How long had it been since she’d been properly hurt? _Ages it seems and yet only days. The past is close and far all at once._ She focused on what was important: she battled a Nazgûl and won, she lived through the biggest battle she’d even seen, and she’d made it back to the person she wanted to see most in this world.

In fact, the sound of his voice was all that she needed to dissolve the fog and bring the power to the surface. She could hear him asking questions and calling to Faramir as the fire was replaced with a gentle breeze and a clear stream and a soft field of green grass swaying with the wind. It was the feeling of the first flowers after a long winter; the moments of exploration right after the storm lets up. The magic targeted the injured parts of her and rippled outwards from there in a smooth wave.

“Faenorë?” His voice called from behind the curtain. She struggled to cover herself, fixing her clothing and slowly getting to his feet as he called again. “If you wish for me to leave—”

“No.” She spoke quicker than she would have liked as she pulled the curtain back, but was relieved to see him unharmed all the same. A small smile graced his features and he relaxed, eyes flickering to the bandages peeking out of her tunic.

“Perhaps when you are no longer healing, we may—”

“I’m healed now.” Faenorë explained, risking a small smile of her own. “Or have you forgotten that I am a sorceress as well as a skinwalker?”

He froze at the remark before sinking slightly, weighed down with a dark look on his face. It took her time to understand she had not made it clear that she was trying to be funny. In a fumble of words she managed to explain as such, successfully lightening his mood, but the whole scenario made her second guess returning at all. Before she had time to indulge the thoughts he spoke once more.

“The men are enjoying the victory with a feast in the celebration hall—will you join us?” He waited patiently as she looked between the brothers, gauging whether or not it would be the best idea given the display she’d put on. A small nod from the steward’s youngest boy gave her the courage she needed and the Captain of Gondor led her from the Houses of Healing. Faramir gave his word he would find them there, but remained to tend to some of his friends. As they walked through the streets of Minas Tirith the people were cheering and flowers scattered the cobblestone. Faenorë tried to fix her hair when a few women passed them, but not much could be done without a brush. _All the more wild I shall look_. “My lady, may I ask why it is that you returned?”

She held her tongue, looking over at this soldier who may have shed his bloodied armor but would never shed his strength. Why had she come back, truly? Why had she given in to the impulse? _Because I need you to forgive me_ , she almost said, _I need you to tell me I can sleep once more without you growing in my mind like untamed plants_.

“Because I am foolish.” She said quietly, looking away from him and lowering her head as they walked on. And then, in a quieter voice she added, “Because of you.”

His gaze fell on her with a power that did not go unnoticed, but she could not bring herself to meet his eyes. Instead she did her best to straighten her appearance and followed the steward’s son in silence until they arrived in front of a doorway. Within she could hear the dulled sounds of men roaring and music playing. _How long has it been since I have heard music_?

The doors opened and she was bombarded with sights and smells from a half-remembered dream. The great hall was full of benches at tables that were covered with food. A feast indeed had been prepared for the war-torn soldiers of Gondor; an array of duck and chicken and beef and fish were mingling with roasted potatoes and fresh vegetables and loaf after loaf of freshly baked bread. In the far corner a group of men were manning different instruments, filling the hall with a foreign song that made her smile all the same.

It was not just the men, though. Their families had come as well to join in the celebration—and to rejoice at the fact that they were not among the women and children left grieving. They were all smiling and laughing and some of them were even singing along, but those men were the same ones spilling half their mugs.

“Lord Boromir!” A small voice cried through the crowds. Four little children, all golden-haired and blue-eyed, skipped down the aisle towards him with wide eyes and big grins. The tallest boy stepped forward at the nudge of his siblings. “Is it true? Was there a _dragon_ at Osgiliath today?”

“I’m afraid not, little one.” He got down on one knee to be at eye-level with the children. “But there was a Nazgûl. And they are about as nasty as the old dragons in the fables.”

“They don’t breathe _fire_ though.” The littlest girl said, one hand fiddling with her long curly hair. “Dannon said that dragons breathe fire and destroy villages until a knight slays him.”

“Uncle said that a witch attacked the Nazgûl up in the sky!”

“Not a witch.” She let slip. The children looked up at her and for a moment looked like they would say something, but their mother’s call broke through the loud music and they went running back. The smile lingered on his face as he watched them leave and something struck her within; she couldn’t help but imagine what he would be like as a father. As she looked around she realized that most of the men were stealing glances at her. _Of course they are. They saw a giant eagle fight off a Nazgûl and then turn into a woman._

“Are you hungry?” Boromir asked, placing his hand on the small of her back and steering her to a soldiers’ table. The men made room, sliding over so the two of them could sit. They greeted Boromir eagerly enough, but waited for their leader to introduce her. She didn’t bother trying to remember all of their names, as there were at least twelve of them, but nodded and smiled all the same. A few of them stared, but it only took for their Captain to make some remark about one of them to calm everyone down again. She hesitated at the sight of the food, waiting for Boromir to fill a plate before selecting a few pieces for herself. A mug of ale was passed her way and she was pleasantly surprised at its taste and potency.

The men all reverted to their former state of laughing at roaring, with a few women coming over now and then to scold them or congratulate them on their safe return. The sight of the place amazed her; she had some memories of the people she’d lived with as a child, but they had been so few compared to this city. Was this what having a community was like? She couldn’t remember. Not at all. The only other interaction she’d had with a community was the group of wild men, but they didn’t feel as…warm as this place. _What it must be like to have a place in this city._

She sat in silence and watched the people of Minas Tirith interact. So much joy in a single place was foreign to her; so much of anything except trees was foreign to her. Was this perhaps what had drawn her back as well? This complete dedication and devotion of the people to protect their own and what was theirs? _These stone circles are their forest,_ she thought to herself, _and this place is a home_. _Full of a thousand lifetimes and memories and the promise of endurance; much more than a log-cabin can ever promise me_. The steward’s son brushed his hand against hers in a reach for more food and she looked over at him as he laughed with the others. _The Drúadan has no equivalent to him, either._

“M’lord Boromir,” The captain turned to face the group of young boys who had approached the table. Most of them wore small swords at their waist proudly and looked at the man with adoration. “Forgive us but…Is she the one who can turn into a bird?”

“Halbarad!” A woman who could only be the boy’s mother came rushing towards him, immediately wrapping an arm around his shoulders and casting an anxious look at the skinwalker. “ _What did I tell you_?”

“Sorry, mother.” He said, drooping his head. His mother mumbled an apology and tried to steer the children away.

“More than just a bird.” Faenorë found herself calling after the boy. He turned with wide eyes, a grin taking over his face as he looked up at his mother. _I am desperate for their approval,_ she realized, _for their acceptance_. The boy wriggled free and came right up to her fearlessly.

“Could…Would you show us?” He asked in wonder. “None of us have ever seen real magic before. Not besides the healers, but that doesn’t count. Mother, can we please?”

“If Faenorë wishes it, I will gladly accompany them Lady Morwen.” Boromir said as he took a gulp of his ale. Morwen nervously studied the woman and then her Captain before hesitantly nodding her head. The boys faced Faenorë with anticipation until she nodded her head. One went off to call a few more friends as the Captain bid his friends farewell. He led the odd group of them all to a small courtyard nearby and she stood by anxiously, awaiting some signal.

“Do you go rabid when you change? Like a real wild thing?” One asked. She shook her head fervently, studying the group of at least ten boys as they seated themselves on a half-wall. Boromir leaned against it, a small smile settled on his face as he watched her.

“Can you turn into a giant eagle like you did at the battle?” Another challenged. Her weight shifted as she moved from foot to foot.

“I think that’s a bit too big for this courtyard, Sir Deruphin.” Boromir offered as he ruffled the boy’s hair. Deruphin laughed and escaped the gesture; the whole scene making her heart flutter.

“I’m usually a…wolf.” She announced with a shrug. The proposition seemed good enough for the boys and they egged her on. With one last look at Boromir and a nod from him, she took a breath and slipped into the familiar skin. They gasped and clapped, turning to talk amongst each other at the spectacle. Halbarad was the first to venture out of the pack, approaching her cautiously step by step until they were face to face. He reached out, the gesture causing her to shrug away out of reflex. Her response made him in turn jump back as if he expected an attack, so she put her head down to try and show she meant no harm. He reached a hand out and brushed it behind her ear once before stepping back. She took it as her cue to change back, and did so to another chorus of claps and gasps.

After that they all began to call out different animals for her to change into. She looked to Boromir for some kind of guidance, no part of her anticipating such a welcome. _Children do not have fear. Children do not care if you are a witch or a soldier, so long as you let them in to your world. So long as you don’t treat them as children._ One by one she went through the different animals, taking on skins she hadn’t in years. It felt good and bad at the same time to morph so many times. On one hand, it opened her mind once more; but on the other hand it made her tired. The Captain seemed to sense this as she exchanged her bearskin for that of her own.

“Alright, that’s enough fun for one night. Halbarad, take your knights back to the hall.” The boys immediately began to object, some grabbing hold of the edge of his cloak as they begged for a few minutes more. He laughed and ruffled their hair before sending them on their way again. Faenorë wandered over to the wall beside him and leaned against it, catching her breath. “They have taken a liking to you.”

“I fear they may be the only ones.” She said sadly, looking down at her boots and crunching them against the stones. He moved in front of her and tilted her head up until she was looking at him. The thing in her chest was racing as she reveled in the feeling of his skin.

“They are not the only ones.” He vowed quietly before pressing his lips against hers. It was a cautious gesture at first; a testing of the waters. But soon her body was pressed against the wall behind her and his hands took hold of her waist. She grabbed handfuls of his tunic, keeping him near even as they broke apart. He lay one hand against her cheek. “ _Stay_.”

“I want to.” She admitted aloud for the first time. But from the alley behind them a familiar voice boomed. It called for his first-born, it called for his son. It sounded drunk. And as they broke away she understood the fear and anger towards Denethor would keep her away. “But I can’t.”

Without a second look she fled the city, making for the refuge of her quiet forest.


	4. Sanctuary

To be woken from slumber is bad enough, but to be _startled_ from slumber was a wholly different experience. It was accompanied by fear and panic and a desperate search for what it was that pulled you from the dreamland. The skinwalker stirred in her hand-carved wooden bed and carefully pushed herself up from the lumpy mattress. It was hard for her to sleep comfortably on the pine needle-stuffed cloth when she had experienced what a bed of feathers felt like. She could smell the fire burning in the main room, listening to the crackling of the kindling in the flames. It was an oddly comforting sound of destruction.

The furs proved warmer than she needed and were kicked off to the end of the bed. She had nearly fallen back asleep when the sound of the animals crying out brought her to her feet. A blade was equipped and the instant after an orc cry sounded through the silent night. It was only then that she accounted for the above average heat; she had not only heard the flames devouring the branches in the fire pit—the whole forest had been set aflame. The heart in her chest raced as the front door was chopped down. She saw the axe first and out of reflex cut off the arm attached to it, black blood spraying her. Two more orcs stumbled into her home and she sparred with them, deflecting both of their attacks before successfully letting them run each other with their own blades. She moved quickly to properly clothe and equip herself before leaving.

Outside, Asta had leapt over the fence that used to keep her safe and reared before kicking at another orc. It fell to the ground and her hooves crashed into its skull. In the enclosement Faenorë saw nothing but corpses and understood her only chance at survival was to flee. Even as she worked to calm down Asta, five more orcs emerged from the north carrying torches and iron blades. They spotted her immediately and she knew there was no more time. Heaving herself onto the horse, the animal sped out away from the flames and enemies alike.

There were a dozen things she wanted to take with her. Old things and new things and things that, for her, existed out of time. But in her last moments in front of the small cabin the roof had already begun to catch fire. Even now, moving through the forest, flaming branches fell all around them. More than once the horse spooked and reared so far she almost fell off, but Faenorë used every last bit of magic within her to calm the animal and bend it to her will.

For the most part it was disorienting riding through the forest at night. Even worse, given the lack of saddle and riding gear that she was used to Asta wearing. There hadn’t been time for anything, though; not even time to properly understand what was happening. But as she neared the edge of the forest and the beginning of the plains, she grasped that it was over. The battle that Boromir and his men had subjected themselves to had all been for nothing. Her home was lost. _I am lost_.

When at last she broke free of the forest Asta slowed and turned to face the place they’d been forced to abandon. The sight stopped Faenorë’s heart. Half of the woods were ablaze; from the Wild Men’s corner far to the North all the way to where her cabin sat in the middle of the Drúadan. Orange destruction was creeping over the treetops like a blanket, moving slowly but steadily. These lands had been officially reclaimed. The impulsive side of her wanted to leave Asta and run right into the thick of the fire to kill every last orc that she could; but her desire to live outweighed the desire for immediate revenge.

At last she tore her eyes from the sight, trying and failing to bury the ache in her chest as she turned to the South. _I am south-bound or I am dead_. She could try to work her way back to the forest of Mirkwood near the Misty Mountains, but what guarantee did she have that Beorn was there, or even alive? None. Gondor was her last hope once more. Boromir’s pity was the last chance she had. There would be no fight to reclaim her homeland, for by the time the battle ended there would be no more land to claim. The trees and the grass and the plants were patient and would grow back, but she would likely be dead long before. Orcs had a tendency to poison the lands they took. _The lands, and all those unfortunate enough to be near them_.

“Forgive me, Asta.” She whimpered into the darkness, wholly and completely broken. The horse whinnied, pacing back and forth anxiously at the distant sound of drums and beastly cries. The woman’s arms wrapped around the animal’s neck and she lingered for as long as she dared before pushing south.

The smell of smoke plagued her all the way to the city, at times blocking out the moon itself. Each league that brought her closer to Minas Tirith only proved to fill her with more dread and despair. She could not recall ever falling victim to such sadness. Even after the attack that destroyed her community, no part of her understood things enough to be crippled by it. But now it permeated her like a chill after autumn rain, and it exhausted her. _Strange that such emptiness could feel so heavy_. 

When she at last approached the grand doors of the White City, it took all her strength to lift the horn of Gondor to her lips and sound out the low call for help. There was a shuffling and a series of distant calls before the doors were heaved open. At least eight men stood at arms ready for anything, but hesitated at the sight of a single person.

“Please.” She sounded small, defeated. “I’ve no place else to go.”

“Lady Faenorë?” A voice broke through the silence. One of the men stepped forward; a face she had no name for. He knew of her, though, and that was all that mattered. At once he beckoned her into the city and exchanged words with the other men before promising to lead her someplace where she could seek refuge. He relayed the story of how he believed she had saved them all during the battle of Osgiliath when she sent the Nazgûl away.

“Forgive me, I have not the heart to speak.” She said distantly, eyes glossy as Asta walked slowly beside the armoured man. He nodded and remained silent for the rest of the journey through the labyrinthine paths of the city. When at last he stopped it was before a familiar door. The room she had claimed the first night she stayed in this place. The first time orcs had threatened her home. _No, my home is gone._

“I will take your horse to the stables, m’lady.” The soldier said, offering her a hand to dismount. She weakly took it, spending a few moments with Asta to try and convince the horse that everything would be fine (although the consolation was much more for herself than the animal). “Word will be sent to Lord Boromir of your arrival. Are you in need of a healer?”

Faenorë shook her head, waiting until the man turned away with the horse to thank him. He bowed slightly before disappearing around the bend, leaving her to retreat into the only familiar place left for her in the world. The room was as she remembered it; but it harboured an air of emptiness—something she could relate to. Her hands glided over the stone and gripped the carved wood, trying to familiarize these things. On the terrace the night was quiet at first, but the longer she listened the clearer she could hear it.

The sound of fire, the destruction of her home. When her eyes adjusted she could see the smoke against the night sky and at the bottom of the horizon the mountains were breathing orange light. So greatly was she averted to the flames that she had refused to light the candles inside the room. For her, the heat was still too near. A few tears etched lines down her face as the door opened. She did not need to look to know who it was. He crossed over to her in rushed steps, hovering only a few feet away.

“They have taken everything from me.” She finally admitted as he loomed closer. Her eyes were frozen on the distant remnants of the forest, the scene that his eyes soon found. “With fire and iron they have destroyed every home I have ever had.”

His hands were gentle but his expression was hard. Thumbs wiped the tears away and forced her to look away from the sight in the mountains. She watched as he studied the black blood on her clothes and hands, his jaw clenching. Her whole body was weak, legs swaying even when he looked up at her.

“I swear to you,” He said in a low but deadly voice “The orc king’s head will roll at your feet when I am finished with him.”

She wanted to tell him _No, don’t go back there. Don’t ever go back there._ She wanted to make him understand that _you’re the only thing in the world that I have left_. But the words would not come and she was just so _tired_ that as the tears came again she collapsed against him. He was more of a refuge than stone walls could ever offer, and the notion of it terrified her to the core. No part of her was ready to be so dependent on one person; to have one’s happiness tied up in another being. To make a home in someone else.

All her life she had been taught to be her own roots, her own sun, her own bed. She knew all the skills required to fend for herself and took comfort in things that could, for the most part, remain unchanged. She had made a home in unmovable mountains and deeply planted ancient trees and a sky that never crumbled. She had taken comfort in the endless plains of grass and wildflowers that came back to her even after a winter of death. But to rely on, to bind oneself to something as fickle and unpredictable as another human being… _Have I not already walked this path? Has this lesson not already been learned?_

“This room is yours now.” He spoke gently but the sound of his voice rumbled through her chest. “If you are in need of anything, only ask and it shall be yours.”

“I do not belong here, Boromir.” She grimaced, easing away as he frowned at her. “Your people shy away from me and see me as a savage. I do not belong here at all.”

“But you could if you wanted to.” He countered with confidence, taking her hands in his. “It is true you were a stranger in this city, but your name floats through these walls like the stories that surround you. Were you not weary of me when you found us in the forest? And yet here we stand. With time my people will come to know you, admire you, and… love you.”

To that, she could not reply. Of few things she was certain; that his arms were a place of comfort, that his hands fit hers like the sky fit the sea, and that her lips had no other match than his. He gave her a reassuring smile, pushing her wind-swept hair behind her ears and laying his hands on her cheeks. She gently held his wrists, sighing heavily and closing her eyes.

“Sleep, my lady. The sun will rise, a new day will come and the ache will lessen over time.”

She nodded once before pulling on his tunic until their lips met. It was a blissful release from the hollowness within, and it was over all too soon. He released her and crossed the room to the door, bowing before leaving her alone. The longer she lingered on the stone terrace the heavier her lids became until at last she could stand no longer. Her tired limbs and aching heart gladly welcomed the comfortable bed. The weapons and leathers and furs found their home on the floor and she crawled beneath the soft sheets and warm blankets, curling up against the pillow with only one thought pushing through the sorrow: _I should have asked him to stay_.

\--------

The morning brought a familiar face and something even more pleasant; the promise of a warm bath and fresh clothes to don. It was the same woman who had tended to her before who drew the bath and presented her with the clothes. At first she was hesitant, seeing only a dress, but the clothes had definitely been made with her in mind. It begged the question of how long ago Boromir had planned for her to stay. The dress was a simple cut; beige in colour with dark brown embroidery around the neckline and sleeves. Two slits ran all the way up to her thighs, which were covered in soft cotton pants. They were a bit big, but the woman pulled two strings to tighten the waistband.

Faenorë thanked the woman, whose name she found out to be Eglantine, and welcomed the notion of breakfast. She disappeared after that and left the shape shifter in silence once more. Mornings were meant to be quiet, but even from behind a door she could hear the gentle stirrings of the city. Distant voices and horses feet clopping on stone and the clink of metal sliding against metal. It was loud, here. But a welcoming sort of loudness—maybe the kind one could get used to. She was _used_ to the breathing of the eastern wind and the rustling of leaves and the soft braying of her animals. _They are all dead, now. All save Asta_. _Perhaps I should have died with them_.

Two knocks against the wooden door spurred her from the trance and she hesitated before going over and opening it. Faramir stood before her, arms full of books and a covered tray. She quickly took some of the books from him as he set the other items down on a table nearby. On his face a sheepish grin had taken over his features while he straightened out his clothes.

“I thought you might want something to read. These were the ones you were looking over last time, I believe. Oh, and breakfast!” He uncovered the tray and revealed hot porridge with a swirl of honey on top, sliced peaches, and a goblet of some fruit juice. She couldn’t help but emulate the smile he was giving her. Just being in his presence somehow alleviated some of the weight on her shoulders. To appease both the man and her growling stomach, she pulled a chair up to the table and started on the porridge.

Faenorë listened quietly as Faramir rambled. He spoke of the city and a recent orc raid he did on the borders of Ithilien (at which point he needed to pull a map out of one of the books to point out where it was), how Osgiliath fared since the last attack, and also how the children she had performed for last time demanded her return. The last point, though, only reminded her of the charred remains of the place she had called home. It struck an ache in her chest that she wished away.

“Faramir…you are knowledgeable of the kings and histories of this world, are you not?” Faenorë asked meekly. The steward’s son nodded once. “Would you…Do you think you could teach me?”

She felt like a hypocrite, caring about the very things she had condemned only weeks before in a furious lash out at Boromir. But he was helping her for what felt like the thousandth time and, as much as it scared her, she cared for him. Deeply. If knowing these names and battles and kingdoms was somehow important to him, she wished to know all about it. The task would help to occupy her mind.

Faramir was happy to oblige, shuffling through the books gently and selecting one with many drawings and maps within. While he spoke she braided parts of her hair and fastened them with wooden beads. He spoke many names that she had trouble remembering; but some stood out like Isildur and Anárion and Numenor. The third age was differentiated from the second age and he spoke of the Elven-king Gil-Galad; of the Last Alliance between men and elves in the fight against the rise of Mordor. She learned of the Golden age and the decline of Gondor and the eventual ending of the King’s line. The closer they came to the present, the sadder the tales became. The more darkness seemed to have spread.

“Do you think…” She hesitated, trying to find the right words as Faramir straightened out the books on the table. “There are many more orcs now, in peopled lands at least, than there have been for some time… Is it possible that something far worse is coming?”

“Do you mean another of the Ainur? One of Morgoth’s line?”

The notion made her fearful but before she could respond at all the door opened. Boromir stood before them in rich robes of crimson red and gold and bowed to them both. At this Faramir took his leave, though not before Faenorë thanked him for the company and the history. When the two were alone he turned to her and allowed a small smile to grace his features.

“Will you walk with me?” He gestured an arm towards the open door and she nodded, tucking the hair behind her ears. They walked out into the open streets of the city, here and there being stopped by a soldier or commoner to answer some query. When the people greeted him, though, they greeted her as well (albeit with more hesitation). It caught her off-guard even after the tenth time. How did they know her name? _The feast from last time, no doubt. I wonder if they hide fear behind their well-wishes._

As they walked she got a taste of the true Minas Tirith. It was rich with life and a culture of hard work and just rewards. There was a fairness here that she could appreciate. An order to the labyrinth of stone and wood. It was as they stopped by different shops and families and outposts, though, that she realized her home and Boromir’s home were more similar than she had originally believed. Just as she would tend to the animals and muse amongst the trees and find peace in the cover of branches, he tended the townspeople and found a home in the shaped mountainside and took solace in the view of Pelennor fields.

He led her to the blacksmiths Angor and his young apprentice Malbreth. In the shop hung numerous blades and shields and fine armor, all of which seemed fit for a king. Some of the work was inlaid with precious stones or gold that caught the light like a calm water’s surface. Angor even allowed the shape shifting stranger to try the forge—she was far better at using weapons than she was at making them. They visited other shops as well, like the butcher where she told Boromir of the trick she used that made the meat keep for longer with half the work.

A number of times she stood at his side while he discussed things she did not entirely understand with others. The fractions she did, though, made him sound much more like a clan leader than an army leader. He had the calmness and empathy and patience and love that a clan leader was meant to have. And she could see that love reflected in the people’s eyes; this whole city would not have picked any other to lead them.

He bid her wait by a fountain while he paid a visit to a sick man’s house. She abided, staring idly at her rippled reflection in the water until she was approached by four small girls. They were all golden-haired and clothed in similar blue and white dresses.

“How do you twist your hair like that?” One asked. Faenorë raised a hand to her hair before remembering the braids she’d set in them.

“I just…Well I could do it for you if you’d like.” The lot of them agreed avidly and the first girl sat in front of her on the stone edge of the fountain’s pool. Faenorë gathered the bright locks in her hands and began to weave the way she’d learned how to so many years ago. She could barely remember the inside of Beorn’s cabin. It was massive, at least to the eyes of a child. She recalled the ever-present smell of smoke and wood and the sweet honey at meals and the way he sang in his sleep. She recalled the way the roof felt too close some nights and she would wander out into the pasture to nestle up with the sheep; and how Beorn would always be beside her in the grass when she awoke.

 _Your mother used to make your hair this way, sweet one_ , he would say. _Your mother would have wanted you to know this song_.

As she braided the girls’ hair one by one the song came out in a gentle tone. It took time for the words to return to her but the tune was nearly a part of her. They did not seem to mind at all, each of them focused on touching and feeling their hair when she was done. Only when she was finished did the mother of girls come to claim them, and Faenorë braced herself. A smile was offered instead of a cautious look, though, and with a nod of her head she was off into the emerging crowd of people. Faenorë then caught Boromir watching from afar, a brightness in his eyes that set a fire in her heart. When he approached her all she could think of, though, was the forest and Beorn’s house and the wildness that flowed through her veins.

“You have done nothing but help me, Boromir, and for that I am thankful.” She stammered out, mind unable to catch up with the speed of her speech. “But I cannot tear my mind away from the wilderness. The branches are bound up in my blood and—”

He took her hand in his and nodded as if this was something he had expected. Instead of begging her to stay or insisting she would find her place or promising things he couldn’t possibly know for sure, he simply started to lead her somewhere. She wanted to call out a thousand times to ask where they were going, what the purpose of it all was, but something in her knew it would be worth the wait. And it was.

When they finally stopped, all sounds of the city were silent to her ears. They stood in a narrow stone corridor off the side of an alleyway on the highest level of the city. Boromir pushed open a wooden door and motioned for her to go through it. On the other side stood a sight that nearly brought tears to her eyes: tall white trees as far as she could see. They were topped with small green leaves and a pale fruit of some sort. Beneath them the ground was blanketed in tall grass softer than the finest silk, and through the middle of the meadow ran a small stream that whispered against the pebbles. Immediately her hands moved to touch everything, to reunite with the feeling of nature.

“This place is yours to roam.” He announced from behind her. She turned and walked over to him. “Whether you wish to leave or stay, this city is yours. My allegiance is yours, Faenorë.”

“I wish to stay.” She said without hesitation, eyes stinging with tears as she wrapped her arms around him. He returned the gesture just in time for her to claim his lips, no part of her able to contain the joy of having both her worlds together in once space. When they broke apart he held her hands in his, smile mirroring hers as he made a final request.

“Beregond is to be wed this afternoon. Will you join the ceremony?”

“Of course.” At that she turned to face the sunlight, musing at the warmth and the crispness of the air and the way the grass kissed her fingertips as she waded through the sea of green. She did not doubt that a pass into the mountains could be found up here; and the notion of a secret place to hide that stood so close to the city only made her feel more safe.

\-------

“My great-grandfather swears he saw an ent, once.” Iorwen vowed as she worked a brush through Faenorë’s hair. She had hair as dark as midnight and eyes darker still, though her skin was as pale as the moon. As a maid to the nobles of Gondor she was asked to help Faenorë prepare for the ceremony. At first it had made Faenorë nervous—she had only just grown somewhat used to Eglantine—but when Iorwen spoke it felt as if they had met before, in another life. Old souls reuniting with ease.

“His faction got separated from the army during a battle and they ended up amidst the old forest of Fangorn. My father will still retell the story, if he’s got enough ale in him. He wasn’t there but he tells it like he was. Trees as tall as anything with booming groans that rustle leaves and feathers alike. Branches stretched out like hands and feet that could squish you into jelly if you made ‘em mad enough.”

“I don’t think there were any ents in the Drúadan. But the trees, they spoke sometimes.” Faenorë recounted wistfully. “It was frightening at first, but it was almost…comforting after a time. A reminder that I wasn’t alone.”

“It must have been scary, all on your lonesome out there. I wouldn’t last a day.” Iorwen admitted without shame as she began to twist the skin walker’s hair into beautiful intricate braids. “I’m useless without a good night’s rest on a feather pillow and soft sheets.”

“Trees and mountains and wilderness is all I’ve ever known.” She shrugged, watching in the mirror as her hair transformed into something rivalling what the women of Gondor had sported the night of the feast. To the large braid at the back of her head Iorwen tied in a vine of small white flowers with bright yellow centres.

“There.” The girl smiled, stepping back to admire her work as Faenorë did the same. While she danced fingertips against the soft petals Iorwen unwrapped a paper package, tossing the fabric within until it unfolded into a stunning gown. It was Gondorian style, a deep emerald green accented with golden trim and embroidery. It took Faenorë a moment to understand that this was the clothing she was meant to wear. With some encouragement, she allowed the girl to help her into the dress and lace her in. It was disorienting at first, feeling so constricted in the chest, but she could not deny the sight of her reflection.

“One last finishing touch.” Iorwen placed a golden circlet atop her head that was adorned with twisting vines, small flowers and white jewels. _I look like a queen, not a savage_. Although she brushed her hair often and bathed frequently, it was not uncommon to find lines of dirt beneath her nails or leaves twisted into her hair or dried blood on her skin. But now, she was glowing.

Part of her began to worry profusely that she didn’t at all look like herself—that Boromir was trying somehow to change her. To _tame_ her; something she refused to let happen. But there was nothing to validate such worries; he had only ever accepted her completely. Embraced her wholly. When the fear eventually subsided she was left with wonder and hope. Even in the dress she felt powerful, and knowing that she could easily slip her skin at any moment helped to calm her.

“Lord Boromir awaits you at the stairs to the sixth level, M’lady.” Iorwen gave a small bow and meant to leave but Faenorë took her hand at the last moment.

“Will—Will you come with me?” She stammered out. “I do not know the way.”

It was so vulnerable to need someone for help. It felt like bearing one’s soul. It was the _trust_ that made it difficult and wonderful at the same time. With a smile Iorwen agreed, linking their arms in a fashion that greatly confused Faenorë; but one she accepted all the same. Many people were headed in the same direction; all, she presumed, heading to the ceremony. _All the city must be attending. Or at least most of it. Beregond must be a man of importance here._ But as they approached the sixth level there was only one man of importance that her eyes were searching frantically for. Iorwen caught her attention and nodded to the walls across the stairs to where a familiar face waited. He was clothed in dark green and black with golden accents that mirrored the ones of her dress.

“Iorwen, I would very much like to return the kindness you have shown me.” Faenorë said earnestly. “If ever you require help, come find me.”

With that they went their separate ways, Faenorë summoning all the courage of her animal counterparts and striding over to the group of men that were gathered around her Captain of Gondor. When she approached it was Boromir who noticed her first, the rest of the men turning to follow his gaze. Their shock made her nervous and she worried that she was wearing something wrong or standing the wrong way, but the look in Boromir’s eyes set her at ease. With a quick farewell the men left them and he took her hands in his.

“Boromir, this is—I appreciate what you’ve done, but—this is too rich for me. I am less than a commoner, I’m a _foreigner_.”

“Faenorë.” He placed a hand on her cheek, laughing at her rambling. “You are just as the queens of old Gondor—strong, fierce, independent. But you can be caring and patient too. You are dressed as you are—noble. And fair.”

To that she had no response and could do nothing save take the arm he offered. They merged into the crowd, exchanging greetings with others as the lot of them made their way to the grand courtyard on the sixth floor. It overlooked the entire city and Pelennor fields, even the lands of Mordor beyond. The sight was equal parts breathtaking and terrifying, but her senses were quickly overtaken by the banners and flowers and decorations that had been put up in honour of the wedding. Boromir led her to their place near the front and they waited as the courtyard slowly filled with spectators.

Beregond was wedding a lady by the name of Gilraen, and as Boromir told it they had long been in love. The entire ceremony was strange to her, though she found beauty in the exchange of words. But words were hard for her sometimes, she was better with actions. She couldn’t imagine standing where Gilraen stood, a thousand eyes watching every move and a thousand ears listening to every word. The two of them could have been more natural, though. When the words were finished an older man in white robes came forth and spoke—perhaps blessings of some sort—and then Beregond kissed his wife. Everyone began to clap as the couple moved down an aisle through the crowd, every now and then flowers being thrown at their feet.

When they reached the end of the aisle the crowds began to trail after them in a march through the streets in celebration of the union. At some point instruments joined the procession and a joyful song followed them around. The music stayed even when they circled back to a large hall—far bigger than the one she had been in last time. Inside the stone tables were covered with food and drink. The falling sun cast a glow into the room that all the wax candles could not hope to outdo. The group of men who had the instruments made their way to the back of the hall and made a more permanent set up while people chose their seats (although it seemed as though they had a very good idea as to who should sit where).

When everyone had settled in the feasting began; something she knew she could at least do properly. The food was spectacular and the atmosphere was intoxicating and the ale was fantastic and her whole being was buzzing with the fact that Boromir was here and Boromir was hers. It comforted her to have Faramir on her other side as the men across from her joked loudly with the steward’s sons.

“Luckily for Beregond the old traditions died out long ago.” One of the men said, gulping down ale.

“Old traditions?” Faenorë asked before taking a mouthful of turkey. She looked to Boromir who finished swallowing before turning to face her.

“It was custom, in the olden days, for the man to prove his worth as a proposal. The necessary debt, as it was called, was something to be captured or some task to be fulfilled.”

“Finding a gemstone or making a weapon or reciting old poetry.” One man offered.

“The women of Gondor are held in high revere; it was a tradition that guaranteed both parties were ready for the commitment marriage requires.”

“What if she wanted something grand, like a ship? Or a handcrafted house?”

“Then she would be unwed for a very long time.” The older one joked, causing all of them to break out in laughter. Boromir turned to her, his hand finding hers beneath the table.

“What is it you would wish for?” He asked, causing all eyes to fall on her. The sudden attention made her want to withdraw and hide, but instead she was forced to think of an answer. If she could demand anything of a man, what would it be? What did she want most?

“I thought it would be the orc king’s head, but there would only be another one to replace him.” She said with a sudden solemnness that sobered the men. “There was a necklace…from my mother. She said it was magic. I left it in my house when I fled, but it is likely burned or buried or deep in the caves with the orcs. I—I suppose I’m not very good at this.”

The sudden arrival of a big burly man with an intimidating beard pulled the anxiety right out of her and replaced it with caution. He narrowed his eyes at her and crossed his arms over his chest, standing silently for a moment before finally speaking.

“Lady Fae, if I said there’s a blockage up on me rooftop what’s causing water to come inside, and if I said ain’t no soldier wants to help on account of the blockage being so close to the edge of the wall and whatnot, could you help?” At her confused response he pulled up a stool and sat before her. His arms were covered in tattoos that she didn’t understand, but his voice was not at all rough. “I just know that something small could get up there and knock the twigs and leaves out so the water runs right. A raven or maybe a raccoon. Now I wouldn’t ask if you didn’t think you could do it safely,”

“I can. Do it safely.” She said, amazed that the conversation had nothing to do with her being strange or foreign or a nuisance or a witch. He grinned ear to ear—a gesture that was very much contagious—and bowed deeply while thanking her before leaving her as briskly as he’d appeared. It was the first appearance of many, as different townspeople came to her with questions or queries or just general well wishes. A few even offered condolences regarding the atrocity in the forest and the loss of her home. She remained awestruck at Boromir’s side, wondering if this was what being in a community was like. _Is this the family I have been missing all my life? Is this what it feels like to have people you can rely on? People who protect one another? Is this what it’s like to have a proper home?_

Each drink made her more open to the people’s questions, and soon enough she found herself offering up hunting tips and schooling the soldiers on the way of the wild. She gave them detailed rules for tracking and navigation, but when younger children came around she started recounting tales of her misadventures and journeys. The music played on and the drinks kept coming and Boromir’s hand lay on the small of her back as she spun stories of goblins and wild men and wolves and wargs and the time that the trees were alive.

There was a brief lull in the festivities when Beregond took Gilraen’s hand and led the people in a dance. It was something Faenorë had only ever read about, and although the notion of it seemed silly, it also looked beautiful, in a sad and slow way. She watched the couples for a long time, gauging their steps and trying to find the pattern to the way they moved. Animals had no dancing. No music. _And neither did Grimhelm_ _or Beorn_. She soon found herself being pulled off the bench, Boromir leading her towards the throng of moving people that confused her so.

“Follow my lead.” He said with amusement before guiding her into position. They began to move and she watched the other women, carefully mimicking their movements. It was easy enough once she realized it was only a few different steps repeated again and again. After that, she calmed and was able to actually enjoy the movement. The music was soft and his body was close and she could not believe that in the span of a day she had lost almost everything yet gained it back tenfold. When the song ended she stumbled, wanting more but understanding that it was over. With a smirk Boromir brought his lips down against hers, not seeming to care that they were in the middle of a gathering of such multitude.

Her cheeks were red hot when he left her, promising to return soon. She was all-too aware of the eyes on her and fled the hall for a breath of fresh air. The beating heart inside her chest was swollen with joy. She sat on the edge of the courtyard’s wall and overlooked the now dark landscape before her. It was only with low grumbling that she realized she was not alone.

“Outsiders…Troublesome…You seek my _destruction_ , harpy!” Denethor’s voice boomed and struck a fight or flight response within her. She was half-tempted to slip her skin and find somewhere he couldn’t reach her, but she then saw he was very much intoxicated and increasingly unsteady. “You will poison my boy and leave him…destroy him…as she…destroyed me…”

“You cannot place your fears on me.” She said with some hidden courage. The broken man frowned sternly at her and braced himself on the wall. The sight of him suddenly made her sad. How deeply must he have loved his wife to have become the man he was now after she had died? “Hating me will not bring her back. And I will _not_ abandon Boromir.”

“He…He must lead the people. The kingdom…there is only us. Only us. He cannot lead with a…without a heart…”

“Denethor.” Faenorë braced the man’s shoulders to straighten him up and saw that his cheeks were stained with water and his eyes were puffy. “These burdens are not yours alone to bear. Do not worry about your sons. They will endure.”

He seemed to awaken at this and stood up a little taller, but without another word he left her in the darkness and went off towards the throne room. She stood a little longer by herself—half in awe that the conversation hadn’t ended in a death sentence—before returning to the celebrations. She was in the midst of searching for a familiar face when a woman grabbed her arm.

“Faenorë.” Her hair was slightly wild and the clothes she wore had seen better days, but she had an honest face. A desperation had taken hold of her features, though, that made the skin walker contemplate a retreat. “I—I do not know if the people have told you to stay away from me, but I beg of you, listen. The others do not believe me, they say I am a crazy old woman. But I fear what I have seen, she-wolf. If I could only make you see…”

The woman reached up to touch her cheek, but the moment they made contact an image flashed into her mind’s eye. It was blurry at first but became clear all at once: it was Boromir. He lay cold and still amongst flattened leaves and dark ground. Three arrows protruded from his chest. He was dead.

“Did—Did you see it as well?” The woman cried as Faenorë backed away. The image hurt somewhere deep within her. Was this a premonition or just black magic? “Please, my lady. You have to save him. Do not let him die.”

She flittered away after that and left Faenorë with a heart now swollen with fear. There was little she knew about magic, but it would not surprise her that some soothsayers were true. The feeling of a hand on her back made her jump, and realizing it was Boromir only pushed her to wrap her arms around him. She needed to feel the breaths he took and the beating heart in his chest and his arms around her.

“I said I would return.” He laughed as she wiped her face of all fear. With a brave face she managed a nod and resorted to cementing his hand in hers. She vowed to be his shadow, to never let him out of her sights if she could help it. He would not die on her watch. She would give her life to be sure of that fact. He kissed the side of her head and led her back to the table and the laughter of everyone helped to put her at ease.


	5. Bond

The fire burned, and it burned hot. She knew this, somewhere in the back of her mind. But for the moment Faenorë dismissed it as the warm summer sun. Grimhelm sat on an old oak stump amongst the animals, carving up branches to use in their home. His hair, long, thick, and black, stuck to his face in choppy sections from the sweat. Lines were only just beginning to settle on his face, and his hands were just as worn as they always were. He stood up at the sight of her, thinking for a moment before grinning. He set down his work and slipped into the skin of a mountain lion, ever his place of comfort. With that he spurred off into the forest, meaning for her to follow.

She debated a while before finally slipping the wolf skin and bounding after him. Still, even in the shade, the heat persisted. She could hear the crackling of branches on fire and smell the smoke. But she ran after him, some part of her painfully oblivious to it. When at last Faenorë followed Grimhelm to a clearing near the mountain side, he shifted back to his human form and let out a bellowing laugh. At first, Faenorë did too, until a deep rumble sounded from the mountains and the earth seemed to shake. A moment of fear graced his face, but in a swift flash of grey, rocks toppled down from the sky to the ground.

His face was frozen like that, blood around his lips that were stuck in fear, and the great rock upon him that could pay no retribution for the evil it had done. Faenorë wanted to scream, she tried to, but the sound would not come. Instead the fires felt all too real and she realized the Drúadan was aflame. Branches began to topple around her, these ancient trees that housed secrets of the Istari and the Maiar and of those who left for Valinor. 

A scream sounded out, completely foreign to her, and she watched as the old woman from the wedding stumbled through the clearing. He skin was covered in soot, her hair half-burned, and her clothes in rags. This wasn’t the cause of her panic, though. Instead her eyes were focused on the place where Grimhelm lay. Only now, there was something different. Faenorë took one hesitant step closer, and then another. Each step produced an arrow in his chest, and leaves fell upon the ground around his body. But by the time she finally loomed close, it was no longer Grimhelm but Boromir.

The sight of him like that, so close but yet completely gone, made her feel fear she could not remember. She backed away immediately, unable to cope with the sight, and watched as the woman wailed. _Save him, save him, do not let our leader fall!_ She said the words over and over, the whole scene growing overbearingly warm and dark.

It was with a harsh snap that Faenorë awoke in the Gondorian bed. Her body was drenched in sweat and her lungs barely able to gather enough air to keep going. Worse, though, she was shaking. With determination she rose, rushing to the balcony to take in the night air. _Just a nightmare, nothing more. Nothing more…_

The words, though, did nothing to help her. She calmed her body’s responses, but her mind and her heart were harder to placate. It was late into the night, if not breaching upon early morning, but she could not wait. If she waited for the sun she would remain in agony. Quickly making herself somewhat decent, she took the skin of a crow and leapt from the balcony. As she soared above the great white city, she could see the charred remains of her forest. The sight did nothing to help her nerves, and so she focused on her destination. She debated whether or not to use the door as all others did, but decided against it. There could be guards outside who would try to keep her out, or worse her approaching Boromir’s quarters late at night could be some sort of bad thing. So she opted for landing on his terrace and taking on her human form, trying to compose herself.

He had been gone for a number of days with some of his men—he told her they were raiding the mountainside for any orcs coming too far south. She wanted to accompany him, but Faramir had needed her assistance in the city and a number of townspeople still required her help. In the end he had been gone for nearly a fortnight, and despite reuniting with him upon his return she longed for more.

“Boromir?” She called out quietly as she approached his bedside. His breathing was even and deep, and in the moonlight he could not have looked more at peace. Here, at least, he was not burdened by the weight of his people’s needs and his army’s direction and _her_. Seeing him like this made her feel at ease, but the image of his body lifeless forced her closer. She decided to let him sleep but crawled into the bed beside him as quietly as she could.

He slept with blankets and furs draped over him, locking in the heat of his body. She let herself under them and hesitantly moved close. He stirred but did not seem to wake, so she curled up against him. Even in his slumber his arm knew what to do, moving around her body to hold her close. She lay there with her head on his chest, taking comfort in the steady beating of his heart and the periodic feeling of his breath pushing against her hair. Her hand gripped tight on his loose shirt and in this place, by his side, she felt safe. Relieved. Almost as peaceful as he was.

“ _Promise you won’t leave._ ” She whispered into the darkness, clutching at him tighter. “ _Promise you won’t abandon me_.”

“I promise.” He said quietly, catching her completely off-guard. She had apparently made the wrong assumption that he had stayed asleep after her impromptu entrance. He held her a little closer and she allowed it for a moment before sitting up a little. He simply lay there, watching her and reaching up a hand to stroke her hair. “Has something happened?”

“I dreamt bad things.” Faenorë admitted, sitting up all the way at the memory. He sat up as well, watching her intently. She let her eyes wander around the room, taking in the sight of all the maps and letters and nearly-gone candles that scattered every surface. “Of death and fire and loss. Of Grimhelm. Of you.”

“Who is Grimhelm?” He asked in a calm voice, watching her intently. It struck her that she had never spoken of him. That the only other soul that would remember him was Beorn, so very far away. Faenorë looked at her Gondorian Warrior and wondered how the story would make him feel. She opted to find out and began to weave the tale.

Faenorë explained how when she came of age Beorn allowed her to make a home of her own in the world. He had taught her all she could learn from another, and that the time had come for her to learn some lessons of her own. She had been close with Grimhelm since they were small children, and so she asked him to go with her. It made sense to her to have him with her, to have him close. In a way, she explained, she supposed she loved him.

They had spent so much time building the little cabin she had called home amongst the trees. When she was ready, she explained how he was taken from her. How she was left alone. It was different from when she was small, from when her people were decimated. With that, she could be angry at something. But with Grimhelm…she could not hate the mountains. Could not fight back against the stone.

“Have you ever felt the void, Boromir?” Faenorë asked in a distant voice, her hand finding his and holding on tightly. “Have you felt the sharp darkness bite away at you?”

“When my mother passed.” He said after a moment. “I was only a child, ten years. Faramir was even younger. I see her in him, so much of her.”

“What was she like?” Faenorë could not recall even the face of her own mother, let alone her personality. The notion of it felt empty and distant, but she still wondered.

“She was kind, gentle-spirited, and selfless. Finduilas was her name. When I was small I thought her an Elven Queen for all her beauty. She would always sing the sweetest songs. She was the light of this city. The whole realm mourned when she passed.” He had a way about him when he spoke of her, as though here and gone at the same time. As though happy and sad at the memory. Somehow, she understood.

Faenorë was struggling with the decision of whether or not she wished to tell Boromir of the dream, of the vision from the old woman at the wedding. It was chewing at her insides and darkening her mind, but she could not bring herself to speak of it. She could only focus on having him there, on the fact that he was alive with her.

“There was also a girl…in my boyhood. We spent many hours together…in truth, I planned to marry her. But she was promised to a man of Rohan and when she came of age I never saw her again.”

The she-wolf took comfort in the fact that his darkness mirrored hers, that they both had scars that seemed to line up right. Whatever her reservations were about him, his father, his people, his city, they could not mask the fact that she was attached to him. She did not want to lose him, and she had even come to rely on him. Without explanation he got out of the bed and wandered to a large cedar armoire. Opening the heavy doors, she watched as he reached in behind his clothes and pulled out a folded up piece of sheepskin. He reclaimed his spot at her side and handed the small package to her, watching her closely as she held it in her hand.

It held a deep weight despite its lightness, and she looked up at him with a questioning glance. He sported a small, muted smile and nodded for her to open it. Faenorë brushed her fingers over the rough surface of the material before gently peeling it away. At first the string of it fell out, a treated leather cord to hang whatever it was from her neck. But when she uncovered the pendant, her heart skipped a beat.

The stone within was familiar to her. Its turquoise colour glowed in the darkness of the room, a gentle light that pulsed in her grip. Feeling the smooth surface against her palms set off waves of muted electric charges. The shape of it was roughly circular, with concentric rings that dwindled into the oblivion of its centre.

“How…” She breathed, barely able to tear her eyes from the pendant long enough to look up at the Gondorian. “How did you come by this?”

“I found it amongst the hoard of the orcs we killed along the border.” He cautiously took it from her to put it around her neck. “In truth I knew not if it was the pendant you spoke of, though I imagined it would make an acceptable gift even if it was not.”

The beating thing in her chest began to flutter and she couldn’t recall the last time ever feeling this way. She crawled forward and placed both hands on his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss. The gesture caught him somewhat off-guard but he was quick to respond, placing his hands on her waist as she crawled closer. When she pulled away she spoke with vulnerability and honesty.

“The void is a cold and empty space…but you are helping to fill it.”

She brought her lips down on his again, crawling into his lap and tugging at the hem of his shirt. At this, he immediately stopped them and pulled away. There was a torn expression on his face but he watched her cautiously. Her brows furrowed at his actions, eyes searching his for some answer.

“I…I do not want to compromise your honour.” He managed finally. She heaved out a sigh and rolled her eyes, taking his hand and turning it over against her palm. With his eyes watching intently, she took one of the rings from his fingers and slipped it onto hers. It just barely fit, nearly slipping off, but it was the symbol she cared about getting across.

“Does claiming me make it honourable?” She asked impatiently, reconnecting with him. The gesture seemed to satisfy him, or else he could no longer bear to resist.

She tugged his shirt up over his head, letting the material fall on the floor. He hesitated before slowly lifting up her gown, easing the material off of her arms and getting rid of it. Bringing her back to him, he pressed his lips to hers in an honest, deep kiss. Nothing of Boromir was what Faenorë was used to. With Grimhelm, these moments were few and these moments were rough. It was always fast, like a race, and his hands gripped and pulled and tugged. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, but she simply could not have known anything different until now.

Until him. Even as their bare bodies met, his arms cradled her and gently laid her down. She was so used to bracing herself at first, but he eased into her and reconnected their lips. Faenorë couldn’t recall ever looking upon Grimhelm’s face during the course of their nights; they had spent so much time in animal skins that their actions mimicked them too and left her focused on the wall or the floor.

He slowly moved against her, drawing out the act and occupying her mind with carefully placed touches. Her arms, her chest, her waist, her neck. His thumb brushed against her cheek before he slipped a hand behind her head. Boromir’s eyes were trained on her, keeping track of every muscle movement in an attempt to react appropriately. She had been so caught up in how she felt that she almost forgot he was active in this as well.

Kissing him deeply, she quickly reversed their positions so she straddled his hips. At first he was shocked, but as his eyes wandered her body he quickly acclimated and welcomed the gesture, settling his hands on her waist. She flattened her palms to his chest and began to move her body, marvelling at the way he looked at her. Faenorë knew in the deepest parts of herself that there would never be another like him.

Her name left his lips in a frenzied breath, and she could tell from the way he gripped her that he was close. She took one of his free hands and guided it between her legs, silently leading him on what to do. There didn’t seem to be enough air no matter how quick her lungs worked. Worse, though, was the realization that in the woods there was no one around to hear here; whereas here a whole city stood audience. She tried to stifle the noise, but failed horribly when at last the both of them reached their limit.

The force of it sent her leaning forward, her body shuddering, before she finally collapsed atop him. He was quick to wrap his arms around her body and keep her pressed close even as she settled into the bed beside him. Her body, her spirit, her heart felt content.

There were no more nightmares in her slumber that night. The comfort Faenorë found in her Gondorian Soldier was unexpected but welcome all the same. They slept all through the night, eased gently out of sleep by the warm sunlight pouring in from the terrace. It carved blocks out on the bed, heating the bodies beneath them. Boromir woke to Faenorë’s hand grasping his, her other one gently tracing each of his fingers. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her head to let her know he had awoken.

“Will you be king one day?” She asked in a quiet voice, snuggling closer to him and laying her cheek against his chest. He was silent for a few moments before answering.

“No, I shall not.” Boromir said, sliding his hand down to settle on her back. “We are the line of Stewards, not of Kings.”

At this Faenorë was visibly jarred, releasing him completely and sitting up. Her eyebrows were furrowed, forever confused by these customs of men. Crawling on top of him, she flattened her hands on his abdomen.

“You _should_ be king.” She said simply, lightly trailing her hands up and down. “There…There have been no kings since Isildur. Even if one did return, he would be a stranger. The people love _you_. You would be an honest king. A _just_ king…One worth kneeling to.”

He cocked his head to the side and smiled absently at her speech. Taking hold of her hands, he pulled so she lay atop his chest. Her eyes were unwavering, so wholly convinced that her words could simply make it true.

“To rule a realm is a heavy burden.” He said after a moment. The words meant nothing to her.

“With Faramir as your steward, surely you would manage.” She reasoned. He took her hands in his and brought them to his lips before looking her in the eyes.

“I would manage better with a queen.” He admitted in a small voice. Pressing his fingers to the ring she had taken, he asked plainly what she had meant by it.

“I know what is in my heart. There will not be another who captures me as you have.” She spoke strongly and without shame. “If I were to have children I would have them be yours. I am as much yours as you are mine.”

From the expression on his face, Boromir had not expected such words from her. He looked upon her with fresh admiration, with hope, with love. Closing the small distance, he brought her into a deep kiss. She let her hands roam and tangle into his hair, her back tingling as he trailed fingers up and down her sides. They broke apart only at the sound of a distant rumble. The two of them looked out of towards the terrace, Faenorë sitting up for a better look.

“Boromir!” The door flew open, tearing them from their observations. Faramir was out of breath but his eyes grew wide at the sight before him. Immediately he turned, averting his eyes and muttering apologies.

“Faramir, what is it?” Boromir asked as Faenorë understood she was to be covering herself. Faramir barely turned his head to speak out urgent words.

“It’s Osgiliath.” He heaved, one hand on the doorknob. “The city is under attack. We must ride.”

“Mordor?” Faenorë asked, rushing to clothe herself as Boromir did the same. When she pressed a hand to Faramir’s arm he willingly turned around, looking between them and nodded. “They will pay for every step they set in the city.”

“Return to Osgiliath and lead the men.” Boromir said, easily slipping into his role as a leader. “I will gather our forces and march with haste.”

“For Gondor.” Faenorë said quietly, almost more to herself than to the brothers. Still, though, they looked upon her with a sense of admiration amongst the encroaching chaos. She did not linger for any words to escape them, simply took the skin of a crow and set off for her room. On the way there she could see the evidence of the battle, of smoke and ruin and tiny distant black dots moving back and forth like ants.

In her quarters she made haste, finding her own clothes, her _woodland_ clothes, and located her weapons. On the table she spied the set of Gondorian vambraces that had been gifted to her shortly before Boromir left for his patrol in the Drúadan. She strapped them on, growing accustomed to the added weight, before running and leaping from the balcony.

In mid-air she grew the wings of a raven, moving with urgency through the skies. Below her, the head of the army was beginning its journey across Pelennor fields. Like water from a damn the soldiers poured from Minas Tirith’s front gates. The sun was beginning its morning ascent into the sky, the light fighting against the persistent darkness that overflowed from Mordor. Faenorë caught sight of the steward’s sons and amongst the Gondorian army and flew ahead towards Osgiliath to survey the battle. As she flew the skin-walker realized that for perhaps the first time in her life, she was no longer fighting just for her own survival. The prospect of the fall of Osgiliath threatened Minas Tirith and the people in it: _that_ was what pushed her. That was what fueled her.

Seeing the river city under siege again reminded her of the last battle she had seen. The attackers had brought a Nazgul that time, and Faenorë anxiously searched the skies for any sign of its return. She had been careless last time, and it ended up hurting her in the end. This time, she would be calculated and careful. Though no less deadly. When she reached Osgiliath the army was not far behind, now headed by Boromir. Minas Tirith shone in the daylight behind them, a stark contrast to darkened and war-torn city before them. Faenorë shed her wings in favour for her true form and awaited the Captain at the entrance. Upon his approach he immediately gave out orders, but paused to listen to her findings from her scouting.

“They are in the city in force and more approach the city. Siege weapons come with them, fewer than eight. On this day they plan to take the city for good.” Faenorë said gravely. Boromir looked her in the eye but did not reflect her fear, instead nodded and turned to face the company. He began a short speech but the sound of men screaming behind them drew the skin walker away. A group of orcs had come across on a boat and arrived on the shore, spurring everyone into action.

Faenorë killed her share and moved along the river, surveying the city ruins properly and trying to imagine they were her trees. Trees provided cover and shelter, much like the stone walls, and the both of them offered labyrinthine ways to lose or become lost in. There were a few broken bridges along the length of the river that connected towers, most of them gone beyond repair. Instead Faenorë focused on what they could control. Along one of the taller buildings, a mass of archers were attacking the opposing force. The skin walker ran for them, dodging attacks along the way and pausing to pull her blade from the neck of an orc.

“The boats!” She roared upon her arrival, drawing the attention of the men. “Light your arrows and aim for the boats! _Burn them alive_!”

The faction leader nodded in approval and the men followed through on the order, setting fire to the tips of their arrows and raining down flames upon the orcs. Some would jump in the water to avoid the flames, and some would die from it, but it would at least give them pause before continuing. All around her the battle roared on, the sound of death impossible to escape. It didn’t always sound like screams of pain: more often it was the subtle gasp that marked the end of a life.

Amidst the chaos Faenorë found her way back to Boromir, fighting at his side as he occasionally called out orders. He was determined to be where the fighting was thickest; determined to defend his forest. However many orcs were killed, there were still so many more approaching the city. Faenorë knew this and constantly had the image in the back of her mind. If they did not gain a foothold somewhere, the city would be lost to them.

“Boromir!” Faramir cried out upon approaching. The two of them looked over as the second born rushed up. “There is a battalion of archers across the river, they’ve fortified a barricade across the northeast bridge and they’re decimating our forces by the great dome.”

“We cannot repair the bridge, the gap is too great.” Boromir said while severing the head of an orc. “Divert the Southern archers and wipe the battalion out.”

“Without the archers we cannot hold the southern crossing.” Faramir said desperately.

“I will fix the bridge.” Faenorë said sternly, wiping the orc blood from her face. The stewards sons looked at her with the same look of puzzlement. “A wolf learns to isolate her prey: I will fix the bridge and lead a team across to stop their numbers as best we can.”

Before either of them could object she slipped away, bounding up crumbling stairs and avoiding the corpses of men and orcs alike. There were archers trying to attack the enemy from the northern side of the broken bridge. She ignored them and surveyed the stone that once connected each half of the city. It was mostly stable but had a large gap in the middle where someone severed it to keep the other side at bay. It was too large a gap to simply jump across, but there was the remnant of an old make-shift bridge that had at one time been put up as a temporary fix. If she could just bring the ropes to the other side, she could fasten them and the bridge would be usable again.

With a deep breath she ran out, taking the ravenskin once more to avoid detection. The orcs seemed preoccupied with the men; no arrows flew at her while she dove under the bridge. Taking the severed end of the rope and plank bridge she struggled to lift its weight. Dropping it, she flew up high to gain some momentum and plummeted towards the bridge, quickly grabbing it and using her speed to fly back up with it. The moment she was high enough to fall onto the other side, she switched back to her human form. It was starting to take its toll on her, all of the shifting, and so she paused for a moment to gather her strength.

As she heaved in breaths and held onto the rope with a death grip, Faenorë watched in horror as the large blackened stones began to fly through the sky towards the city. The orcs finally had the trebuchets within range. The sight pushed her forward, heaving the rope bridge up and securing it as tightly as she could. When the men on the other side finally saw what she had done, they immediately came to back her up. The skin walker ran forward at the unsuspecting orcs and began to attack the nearest ones, knowing that once the archers were dealt with and they could retreat, any orcs attempting to cross the bridge would be easy to take out.

The arrows were now focused on the group of them as more of the archers were killed. Faenorë fought with all of her anger and fury that had ever been pent up. She fought for the Drúadan forest that lay barren, she fought for her entire community of skinwalkers that were butchered, she fought for the city of innocents who lived in the great stone city. After throwing an orc over the walls of the barricade to its death, Faenorë turned in time to see an arrow heading straight for her chest. She had no time to react, no senses quick enough to save her life.

Blackened metal struck against the gifted necklace on her chest, the only heirloom aside from fractured memories that Faenorë would ever have of her people. Her family. Where the gemstone should have shattered, it pulsed instead. A warm glow emanated from it and rippled through her body, a gust of wind rushing through the group of men and orcs alike as her hair whipped furiously around her. The arrow clanged to the ground and the orcs looked on in shock as Faenorë began to swell with rage. It felt different from a human’s anger. It felt more primordial, volcanic, undeniable. The skinwalker began to stretch into an unfamiliar form. She felt raw power and strength and impossible authority. Wings carried her up and above the city, and she felt fire in her belly. _Dragon_.

The necklace must have tapped into some connection with her dead kin. Some base power that lay dormant in them all and connected across generations. As the dragon hovered above the city, winged and spiked and stewing with fury, Faenorë revelled in the power. She was the fire-breathing defender of an endangered people. She was the vengeful ghost of her slaughtered kin. She was the lethal whisper of a destitute forest, long since turned to ash—and she would have her revenge.

The men of Gondor that had followed her over the bridge retreated, and Faenorë immediately engulfed the enemy archers in flame. She wanted to smash the whole southern side of the city, she wanted to watch as the stones crushed the life out of the orcs, she wanted to set the fields of Pelennor on fire and burn the blight of the orcs from existence. It was a small voice in the back of her head that reminded her only the orcs deserved her fury: that she could not destroy the city without destroying the men. The good men. Not like the one who tried to take her in her cabin. Good men, like her Boromir and Faramir.

Faenorë took to the skies and sought out the enemy trebuchets. They were made of metal, but to a dragon nothing is strong. Nothing endures. She smashed them with ease using either her tail or her great feet, even melting the iron of one into a useless shape with the heat of her flames. The dragon flew and destroyed all that she could, focusing on the incoming supply line of orcs and weapons that trickled out from Mordor. They tried to loose arrows at her, but she flew too high for any of them to hit their target. In one fatal swoop she drew close and lay an ocean of fire upon the approaching orcs, roasting hundreds of them alive leagues from the city. It would give the others pause, if not send them back to the Black Gates altogether.

As she returned to the city she could feel her strength, her fury, waning. She made the most of her power, destroying enemy boats and other groups of archers, but it seemed the sight of a dragon alone was enough of a deterrent for some of the orcs. When at last the gifted power left her, Faenorë fell into the great dome of Osgiliath. The impact and the sudden shift back to her human form left her incredibly weak and disoriented. For a while she lay there, trying to keep herself conscious and ignore the pain her body felt. She scrambled for her weapons, hearing the scuffle of rushed footsteps approach her. For the first time in so long she felt the deep fear of death: try as she may she had not the strength to defend herself against any number of orcs.

“My lady!” A man cried out, rushing over to her with a group of men in tow. She realised it was Eregion, and was hesitant as he helped her to her feet. “Lord Boromir is searching for you. Are you injured?”

“Nothing severe.” She said in a hoarse voice, leaning against him for only a moment before finding strength enough to walk on her own feet. He and the other men escorted her out into the city, and it was only then that she realized Osgiliath was quiet. Looking around, the fighting had almost entirely stopped. The orcs had retreated or died. _We won_. Eregion led her past hundreds of corpses to the city square, where men were all gathering.

“Lady Fae!” Faramir called out from their left. He turned back for a moment and then approached with Boromir. A relieved smile overtook both of their faces as the skin walker embraced her stalwart warrior.

“The necklace—it changed me.” She managed, trying and failing to explain that if he had not recovered it for her she quite possibly would have died. He only focused on kissing her, on letting her feel his hands against her body. His lips came at hers longer than they ever had before, and despite her selfish want for him all to herself she pulled away. “Shouldn’t you address the men?”

He laughed and nodded, laying his hand on her cheek before promising his return. Faramir stayed at her side while Boromir ascended to the top of a tower, the shining flag of Gondor firmly in his grasp as he marked the city with it. The whole crowd of men amassed before him, crying out his name.

“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom. A place of light, and beauty, and music. And so it shall be once more! Let the armies of Mordor know this: Never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands. The city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed. _For Gondor! For Gondor! For Gondor!_ ”

Everyone cheered out, echoing his words. If Faenorë hadn’t felt so weak, she would have joined them. It made her heart feel light and airy, knowing that the city was safe. Minas Tirith was safe. The people she cared about could live now without the fear of incoming war. Everyone began to turn to their comrades and celebrate, congratulating one another and sharing tales of the battle. More than a few men gave thanks to the skin walker, but despite the warm welcome she stayed at Faramir’s side where she felt most comfortable. She smiled at the memory of how they had all met: nothing more tying them together than a desire for the second born to not lose his arm and his elder brother’s plead for help. When Boromir finally made it back to the two of them Faramir embraced him with a grin.

“Good speech. Nice and short.” He nodded, the sheepish grin spreading to Boromir.

“Leaves more time for drinking!” Boromir cheered, turning to everyone around him. “Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!”

Mugs of ale began to appear, everyone passing them around, and when one was handed to Faenorë she downed it gladly. It would help numb the pain until she had the strength to aid in the healing process.

“Remember today,” Boromir began, lacing his hand with Faenorë and looking from her to his younger brother. “Today, life is good.” His smile dropped at the look on the skin walker’s face. “What?”

“He is here.” She said quietly, releasing his hand. Though Denethor no longer enforced her banishment from the city, he bore no overwhelming love for the girl. Faenorë was combative by nature in nearly all circumstances, but when it came to Lord Denethor she tried to do as little as possible that would incur his scorn.

“One moment of peace. Can he not give us that?” Boromir sighed as the steward’s voice rang out amongst the crowd.

“Where is he? Where is Gondor’s finest?” Denethor called out, moving through the throng of surviving men. “Where is my first-born?”

“Father!” Boromir went to greet him and Faenorë stayed with Faramir, feeling a pain in her chest at the sight of how poorly Denethor regarded Faramir.

“They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly.” Denethor beamed, bracing his son’s shoulders. Boromir shook his head.

“They exaggerate.” He turned to Faramir in an attempt to stand up for his younger brother. “The victory belongs to Faramir also.”

“But for Faramir, this city would still be standing.” Denethor said disdainfully, scowling at Faramir. “Were you not entrusted to protect it?”

“I would have done,” He said in his defense. “But our numbers were too few.”

“Oh, too few. You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim.” Denethor hissed, lowering his voice and nearing his second born. “Always you cast a poor reflection on me.”

“That is not my intent.” Faramir said with a blank face, sighing heavily. Faenorë looked to Boromir who shared her exasperation. He turned to his father and shook his head.

“You give him no credit and yet he tries to do your will.” Boromir said severely, walking away as Denethor followed. “He _loves_ you, father.”

The two of them stood in an alcove while the men continued to celebrate. Faenorë and Faramir were close enough to hear them speak, but stayed out of their line of sight. The skin walker claimed two more mugs of ale for the both of them, longing for nothing more than a long bath and even longer sleep.

“Do not trouble me with Faramir. I know his uses, and they are few. We have more urgent things to speak of. Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He will not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumoured that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”

This caught Faenorë’s attention. She had learned, in her books from Faramir, about these places and people. Of enemies with legendary stories so far away they felt like fairy tales to her.

“The one ring… Isildur’s Bane.” Boromir said gravely.

“It has fallen into the hands of the Elves. Everyone will try to claim it: men, dwarves, wizards. We cannot let that happen. This thing _must_ come to Gondor.” Denethor said desperately while Faenorë ventured a few steps closer. She could see Boromir through the crowd, could see the apprehensive look on his face.

“Gondor?” Boromir breathed, subconsciously taking a step backwards. Faenorë read the ring was powerful and dangerous, but if it was brought to Gondor she knew Boromir could keep it safe.

“It’s dangerous, I know. Ever the ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser men. But you, you are strong and our need is great. It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying.” Denethor was almost growling, and despite her detest of him he was right. Faenorë had once suspected that the increased sighting and expansion of orcs may have been the hint of something worse to come. “Sauron is biding his time. He’s massing fresh armies. He will return. And when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You must go. Bring me back this mighty gift.”

Boromir thought about his father’s words, but when his eyes looked over at Faenorë he seemed to find resolve. Shaking his head, slowly at first, he kept her gaze for a moment too long and then returned to his father.

“No. My place is here with my…with my people. Not in Rivendell.” He left his father’s presence at that, walking back over to Faenorë as best he could. She tried to hide the small smile taking over her features, but when he mirrored it she let it grow.

“Would you deny your own father?” Denethor said dangerously from behind them as he followed after his first born.

“If there is need to go to Rivendell, send me in his stead.” Faramir interjected, stepping forward hopefully. Denethor regarded him with disdain and shook his head. Boromir stood at the skin walker’s side and she tentatively laced a few fingers with his. A small act of defiance.

“You? Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, captain of Gondor, to show his quality. I think not. I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me.”

Suddenly Faenorë remembered the night of Beregond’s wedding. In the tavern, amidst the celebrations, the old woman who approached her and relayed a vision worse than an army of orcs. Boromir, dead and alone in a forested area with arrows protruding from his chest. Faenorë vowed to protect him from any harm, by her life or death. She would save him any way she could.

“I will go with you.” She said quietly, the words meant for him and no other. He looked over at her with mild shock and she repeated the words, eyes fluttering down to his lips for a brief moment as he fully took her hand in his. With a nod to his father, Denethor announced Boromir would leave immediately with a small group of the city’s best men and ride north for Rivendell.

Along the ride back to Minas Tirith Boromir had a hushed conversation with his brother, the three of them parting ways once inside the gates. Faenorë made quick work of packing for the journey: she was already accustomed to travelling light. Before she could leave her room Boromir appeared at the doorway, clad in his freshly cleaned armor. He approached and took her hands in his.

“You need rest, Faenorë.” He said gently, looking down at their enjoined hands. “You need not come.”

“Must I remind you with words that I will not easily be removed from your side?” She challenged, raising an eyebrow at him. He smiled at her, a smile filled with adoration, and she pressed her lips to his. “If something were to happen and I was not there, I could not bear it. I will go with you.”

“As you wish.” Boromir bowed slightly and then the two of them descended to the first level of the city where the gates stood open for them. Five men would ride with them, the guard of Gondor’s finest. Faramir awaited them and offered earnest goodbyes and well wishes. Faenorë promised they would return and mounted Asta, wondering how the elation after the victory in Osgiliath could have given way to such solemn farewells.

“Remember today, little brother.” Boromir said kindly, though there was sadness in his voice. Boromir led the way out of the city, Faenorë at his side, and the guard behind them. No matter what it took, the skin walker would keep the woman’s vision from coming to fruition.

Nothing would take her Gondorian away from her.


End file.
